


The Elf Husband

by Voxynqueen



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mild Sexual Content, Original Character Death(s), Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-12 18:35:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 176,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5676364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voxynqueen/pseuds/Voxynqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A warrior, hardened and ruthless. Death is his duty. When Aragorn calls him to help protect the last Dunedain fortress, Legolas will face the evils of Angmar whille adapting to life in a community of humans. What he didn't expect was to feel awkwardly attracted to one of them. A romantic tale of how the warrior became the husband. Legolas/OC</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Author's notes & Warnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Authors Note: This first actual 'Chapter' is more of an exposition, an introduction before the beginning of the story – hence the shorter length. The proceeding chapters set the scene and introduce about 15 of the main Original Characters (OC's). Lots of information and lots of names: I do hope it is not too tideous to read. I thought to include a 'dramatis personæ' at the start of chapters - Let me know if this is a good idea.
> 
> ** Sindarin translations provided by Dreamingfifi at realelvish . net - please support!
> 
> ***I do not have a beta reader so apologies if I have missed grammar any errors. If anyone is interested in being a beta, please send me a private message.
> 
> ****Obligatory Declaration: I do not own the story, the world, the characters or the languages of Tolkien's books. No money has been made yada yada yada. No copyright infringement intended.

Authors Note & WARNINGS

If you haven't automatically skipped this, I thank you for taking the time to read.

Authors Note: After almost fifteen years of reading fan fiction across a vast array of genres, I decided it was time for me to contribute. This is my first attempt at a serious, novel length story. It is intended as a romance, exploring the changes and challenges in one as strong and impenetrable as a hardened elven warrior when encountering the pain of love for the first time. Set sixty years after the elf-king's suggestion to his son to 'find the Dúnedain'.

This is a two-part book, with 'part two' beginning after the coronation at the end of ROTK. Same story posted at Fanfiction.net

Warnings:

*First warning – I have spent weeks researching Tolkien's books, online sources, and forums, however there comes a point when you have to take creative licence and add your own flavour. This is not so much due to arrogance as it is about the inherent complexity of Tolkien's world; scholars of Tolkien today still debate with each other over law and cannon. What hope did I have?

Therefore, please be warned, though this story in set in Middle Earth, as you die hard Tolkien fanatics (nothing but respect to you guys) will undoubtedly discover, some things have been altered for the purpose of the story.

This story draws more heavily from the movies than the books (again complexity and compatibility issues). Also, I have added points of culture, history and even some physical characteristics for the simple reason of separating one race/people from another, especially with the Dúnedain and Sindar. Hence, please have an open mind and patient for there is usually a reason for the changes and not just the whim of a mad-woman.

Example One - the Sindar all have the same eye and hair colour, whereas those of the Nolder do not. Separated colonies over the space of thousands of years - appearance and some culture is likely to have changed. And yes, I have also added to the relationship between Nolder and Sindar. Nothing too bad, I assure you.

Example Two – Elves are meant to be tall. Orlando Bloom is without a doubt in my mind the epitome of elvish excellence, however I do not think him tall enough to be considered 'tall'. And in this story the elves, especially the Sindar, are taller than humans and even the Dúnedain. Aragorn must stand at least half to an inch shorter than Legolas.

Example Three - Albeit more a confirmation; elves from the Woodland Realm eat meat (Tolkien wrote that himself in The Hobbit).They hunt and they eat meat. Just putting this out there now.

Example Four – Sindarin does have its place in this story as its use shows the level of emotion and/or reaction in the character – we all tend to switch back to our mother tongue when we stub our toe and yell out obscenities. But I have kept the use of Sindarin as minimal as possible. At this stage I have not found a reliable or willing translator - (I know about as much Sindarin as I do Klingon, Qapla'!) Also I have not assumed (as many writes assume, much to my annoyance) that everyone speaks fluent Sindarin. The English translation will appear next to the Sindarin, as this is how I prefer to read. The impact of knowing the words are in Sindarin is still there, but gone is the frustration of not knowing what they just said.

**Second Warning – Length. Currently part 1 of this story sits at around 300,000 words, not including author's notes and warnings. Each chapter will be approximately 5,000-10,000 words each.

***Third Warning – Original Characters (OC) and the 'Mary Sue' issue. I must make mention of the 'Mary-Sue' issues floating around fan fiction like a stinking, rotten rubbish tip. Though I can understand how the 'perfect' OC female lead may be frustrating to some readers (me included) I do have to say that one thousand Mary-Sue's running around is better than NO fan fiction at all. I believe it is better to have people attempting to keep the stories we love so much alive by creating their own additions than to let the world, in this case Middle Earth, die off.

Having said that, I have spent days alone researching just what exactly makes a 'Mary-Sue' and how to combat it. I have done my upmost to ensure my OC has character and is as believable as I can make possible. If you find you don't like my OC, please say why, and not just shout out Mary-Sue!

OC's in general - I have many OC's. I hate naming them. Sometimes I just name someone who's hairy, 'hairy' in elvish. So please, don't try to translate - I have no hidden meanings in their names.

****Fourth Warning – Clichés. As this is my first real length story, additionally the first for me in this genre, I have selfishly indulged in some clichés. They may irritate, however I do promise I have added my own spices in hope this freshens their flavour. Please feel free to keep a tally of how many clichés I do use as I'd love to see how many 'cliché hits' I get.

*****Fifth Warning – Mature Content. This book is aimed at mature readers. There will be violence, dark themes and very occasional mention of torture. When the orcs speak about tasting man-flesh, I take it they are not just trying to sound vulgar and evil. I will post a warning at the top of the chapters that contain the violence and/or mention of torture. I will however abide by the websites rules regarding graphic violence.

There will also be sexual references, some sex scenes, but don't expect hanging from the ceiling type stuff. Not saying I don't like heavy smut, I like heavy smut as much as most readers do. However, I suck at writing love scenes... I will do my best when the time comes. . .

I was not going to include any, but how the characters 'get it on' is a huge insight into character and adds to the essence of the story. This is a romance after all. I do hope though that I have crafted it into the story well enough to be of value to the reader.

As always, I will post a warning at the top of the chapter if there is anything that maybe upsetting or offensive to readers.

 

If you've made it this far through my inane babble, I thank you.

Please feel free to drop me a line if you wish to discuss, ask questions, etc. as I don't want to annoy other readers by adding comments, answers, and 'thanks' to the end of chapters.


	2. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Authors Note: This first 'Chapter' is more of an exposition, an introduction before the beginning of the story – hence the shorter length. There may be a delay for the next chapter as it needs some drastic editing.
> 
> ** Sindarin translations provided by Dreamingfifi at realelvish . net - please support!
> 
> ***I do not have a beta reader so apologies if I have missed grammar any errors. If anyone is interested in being a beta, please send me a private message.
> 
> ****Obligatory Declaration: I do not own the story, the world, the characters or the languages of Tolkien's books. No money has been made yada yada yada. No copyright infringement intended.

 

0000

 

"Gimli, what about you? Do you have a wife waiting for you?" Pippin asked the Dwarf.

The fellowship had been marching their way towards Mordor for over two weeks, always the towering ranges of the Misty Mountains their constant companion to the left. The minimal danger of their location afforded them the luxury of much conversation during the day, but ever so much more during the early evening as they sat together around a warm fire to eat their evening meal.

This evening was no different.

"Indeed, I do not," Gimli chuckled from his belly. "There are far too many beauties in my land to settle for just the one," he said gaily, his voice full of good mirth and a wink from his eye towards the young hobbit.

Pippin joined in Gimli's chuckle, "Well, as I say, that is just as well. We all free from the oaths of matrimony and therefore at liberty to embark on this fellowship without fear of leaving behind a grieving widow."

For a moment the air was filled with many nods of affirmation and words of agreement. That was until Aragon gently cleared his throat and spoke clearly, at once silencing them, "Not all, Pippin."

"Not all?" the young hobbit asked Aragorn, very much surprised. "Oh! I did not know you to be wed?"

"Not I," Aragon gave a slight shake of his head then shifted his eyes to stare directly behind Pippin's right shoulder, "Legolas is married."

The astonishment was evident by the agog looks on the majority of the company's faces. "You are married, Master Legolas?" Pippin inquired, having twisted himself awkwardly around to face the elf.

Legolas's good natured features, so often to be found stern or aloof, softened noticeably as he answered the hobbit, "Indeed, I am."

"But," he tried to work his tongue around his surprise, "but you have never spoken of it."

Legolas's lip twitched in amusement, "Nor have you asked."

Pippin smiled coyly, for it was true; never before had he the strength of conviction to take it upon himself to speak directly to the often aloof Woodland prince. Yet the reason was not that Pippin was afraid, more so he felt the ancient elf would find conversation with hobbits dull and uninteresting.

Now, however, Pippin found his curiosity overshadowed his nervousness and prodded Legolas for more information with a smile, "I bet you've been married longer than all the years we have lived combined." He smiled and gestured to the wizard, "Well, maybe except for Gandalf."

The elf smiled kindly at the young hobbit, but the smile did not reach his eyes. "Alas, no. Our union was made only briefly before I was called to Imladris."

"Briefly? For an elf do you mean? Perhaps decades?" Pippin asked teasingly, his courage coming along in leaps and bounds.

Legolas's fine features dropped ever so slightly, as he said breathily, "Nay, not even a week had passed when the messenger arrived and I was called away."

"Not even a week?" asked Sam. "Blimey, sir! That must be quite the hardship for you."

Legolas's eyes remained staring into nothingness as he spoke. "You can be sure, Master Gamgee, it is a formidable hardship; one that only increases with each passing day."

"What is she like?" asked Merry from Pippin's side, reaching over to take a sausage out of the fire. "She must be a beauty beyond measure, even for an elf."

The silver eyes of the elf focused back to the group and smiled at Merry, "She is undeniably beautiful. However she is no elf."

"Not an elf?!" exclaimed Merry. "What _is_ she?" he blurted in horror before he could stop himself, his surprise causing him to drop the stick and sausage back in the flames.

"Merry!" Gandalf reproached, glaring at the hobbit.

However Legolas merely laughed lightly, "Peace, Gandalf. I am sure Merry meant no offense." He looked back to Merry and Pippin, "She is called Eryndes, Eryndes of the Dúnedain."

Pippin gasped, "Like Aragorn?"

"A mortal?" Boromir asked doubtfully.

"Yes." Legolas leaned his shoulders back further to take up the support of the tree behind him, suddenly feeling slightly uncomfortable.

Although many of the company could see the elven prince's subdued withdrawal, it was completely lost on Pippin. "Aragorn told us stories of she-elves falling in love with mortals, but not one was of the opposite. What is she like? Without a doubt she must be something very special."

For a moment it seemed like the shadow that had cast over Legolas's emotion would take hold. But at once his long figure shifted forward again, again permitting him to be a part of the group. "Tell me, Pippin, how would you succinctly account for someone who is a stranger to a friend, being careful to not incite frustration with a long-winded description? Where would you start?"

Pippin thought for a moment, "Well, if I were to describe Merry, I would begin by saying that my friend is handsome, but not more so than I," he laughed. "He is funny, loyal, brave, and has a terrible talent for leading us into trouble." Pippin ignored the snort of outrage Merry levelled at him and nodded. "Establishing the stoutest qualities of character are most important, the qualities that burst into your mind at the mere thought of the person in question."

Legolas smiled with a nod, but took a good moment before answering. "Then I would begin by saying my wife is as vibrant as she is beautiful, the kindest of souls," he paused to smile at his own joke, "and unquestionably foolish."

Aragorn chucked loudly, "And fortunate not here amongst us to take offence."

"Foolish?" Gimli scoffed even louder, "What kind of husband calls his wife foolish?"

Legolas gave a small shrug but did not look towards the dwarf, "There is no doubting the truth of it."

"How is she foolish? Do you mean to say she is a little simple?" asked Frodo, speaking for the first time since they had stopped their gruelling march and made camp.

"In many ways foolish, Master Hobbit, but in no way simpleminded. Indeed she is very clever. Yet it is often her cleverness and compassion, her inability to bear the suffering of others, which usually results in an ill conceived or foolish words or actions."

"Then she has a good heart," Boromir grinned at him for what must have been the first time. Legolas found the man held very little regard for elves upon his arrival at Imladris, and had shown no kindness until now.

"The very best of hearts," piped in Aragorn, who looked inquisitively at his elven friend. At Legolas's nod, Aragon continued happily, "See Pippin, the majority the women of the Dúnedain are well known as skilful warriors and hunters. We have adapted this way since the sinking of Númenor and then the destruction of the Northern Kingdom. Now many of our rangers are women." Aragorn paused to chuckle, "However, there are some who choose a more _learned_ style of life, as was the case with Eryndes's mother. Her choice was books, music and the arts of healing, forsaking blades and bows to the domain of mindless brutes. Dutifully, Eryndes followed her mother's example."

"Mindless brutes?" Boromir scoffed callously, "Maybe in the north."

"I never met her mother," Legolas said softly, hoping to appease the ill will directly to his wife's beloved mother, "but I do know when her husband and only son fell in battle, she swore to protect her daughter from the same fate."

"Well," Boromir inclined his head to Legolas, "I can understand that."

"However noble her intentions, I do not agree." Legolas smiled warmly at the memory, his eyes brightening in the fading light, "I myself endeavoured to school her in the basics of weaponry and self defence, but alas to this day she still fumbles to even nock an arrow." He laughed lightly, "or to not drop a blade on her foot."

"For how long have you instructed her?" Boromir asked with an amused chuckle.

"Eight months."

Many of the company sniggered, none so loud as Boromir, "Unlike elven folk, most women prefer gentler occupations than warfare."

Legolas shrugged; for he knew Boromir was correct. He knew it very well that many mortal women did rather their men stand in defence of them, instead of learning to wield arms themselves. In his own opinion this left them vulnerable and was why he toiled to change that in the one woman who held his heart.

"Perhaps the problem with the teacher, not the student." Gimli grumbled.

Pippin grinned broadly at Gimli's teasing but after glancing back at Legolas, he dropped his grin. The dwarf and elf did not like each other and it was wise to remain silent and unmoving to their bickering; even when their slights were humorous.

"However," Aragorn said his voice suddenly serious and devoid of all previous mirth, "like all Dúnedain, Eryndes does not stand ideal when honour or duty calls, especially when others are in peril."

Legolas nodded, his face also sombre at the memory, "There was an orc raid on a nearby homestead not long ago. The orcs brutally killed the farmer and his wife then stole away the young girl and my wife, who had instead of running away when she had the chance, remained to look for the two women." He sighed in despair, "What aid an apothecary could offer during a raid?"

Silence cut through the once merry discussion and drove on for many a moment. Finally Pippin swallowed and dared to ask, "What happened?"

"It took me two days to track down the raiding party, by which time the girl," he paused to swallow against the sudden pressure at the back of his throat, the pain threatening to prevent him from speaking further, "was already slain but not before merciless torment and torture." Legolas breathed in and said with a sad bitterness. "It took another two days of hard riding before we were again free from danger."

It was Gimli's voice that cut through the night, "A sad lesson to be learnt about the stubbornness of women."

"A brave woman," Boromir stated, his eyes daring Gimli to oppose him.

"She almost died during the ride home," Aragorn bit out, also looking at Gimli. Whatever the dislike Gimli and Legolas shared, it was not right to speak so callously about someone who almost died.

Legolas nodded in agreement, his grief yet not quite far enough away to remain but a dull ache, "Yes. Soon after I had returned from slaughtering the orcs responsible, we wed." He frowned then, "though perhaps I myself was foolish to believe marriage alone would tame her reckless nature."

"But did you not say you had only been marriage less than a week?" Boromir asked, a smile touching the corners of his mouth. "Not even the powers of the elves could suppress the determination of a strong woman in less than a week."

Legolas chuckled lightly "I guess there is truth in that."

"And yet you left for this quest" Gimli growled, apparently still not finished in his desire to unsettle the elf.

"Yes, I did. Not by preference, mind, but because it was necessary," Legolas told the dwarf sternly. "When my people leave this land, a land I have loved since birth, I want to take with me the knowledge that we leave it to continue on without us in triumph, not darkness."

Gimli held Legolas's hard gaze.

"And if my wife were to declare her wish to remain in Middle Earth, how could I not fight to save it for her and for her people?"

In the end Gimli shrugged indifferently and returned to his food.

"It couldn't have been easy, to leave her so soon. She must've been angry," Sam mused aloud, perhaps knowingly diffusing the tension by his cheerful manner.

Legolas looked at the hobbit, his eyes piercing, and then to the surprise of all, he gave an incredulous laugh with a great big smile.

After a blink in surprise, Sam joined in with a light chuckle and shook his head, "Yes, indeed she must have been _very_ angry."

Pippin too laughed cheerily, but his curiosity was yet to be satisfied, "What does she look like? Fair hair and skin like you?"

Pippin's persistence on the topic of his wife seemed to amuse Legolas and he pursed his lips briefly in thought, "Many of the Dúnedain share their appearance. Dark hair and pale skin. Taller also, than the men from the south." Before Pippin could express his disapproval of Legolas's prevarication, which was clearly written on the hobbit's face, Legolas continued, "Eryndes is the same; dark hair, fair skin, taller than women of the south." He paused, his manner turning awkward, turning his head away in sudden discomfort which was clear to be seen by all, "And a smile warm enough to melt the heart of the coldest of souls." Quietly he then added, "though I may be guilty of being a little biased."

Pippin grinned, "I think every man has the right to think his wife beautiful."

Legolas looked back to the hobbit and surrendered a mock indignant smile, "I am no man."

Pippin bowed his head in capitulation, "Every _elf_ has a right to think his wife beautiful."

Legolas inclined his head too with a smirk.

"What do you think, Aragorn?" Merry asked. "Is Legolas just being a dutiful husband?"

Aragorn shrugged, "I also may not be the most impartial of judges, for I have watched Eryndes since the cradle. She is my sister, not by blood but by honour. However, I can say she is known and admired throughout the north."

"Known?" asked Boromir. "I do not recall hearing her name."

"The name 'Eryndes of the Dúnedain' is known well in the north. Her family descend from the time of Arnor, distinctly honoured in battle," Aragorn pointed out.

"I wasn't aware of any ancient Númenórean Lord's family in the north." Boromir said.

"That is because they are not lords," Legolas admitted evenly.

"Not lords?" Boromir's voice showed is disapproval.

Gimli scoffed loudly, "You're father, the great elf-king, allowed you to wed a mortal commoner?"

Legolas's glared at Gimli, but remained silent in the face of Gimli's offer of hostility, his temper threatening to break loose from his control.

Gandalf sat forward, "Valour and honour are not only found in those of noble blood, Boromir."

"Isildur was travelling to the north when he was killed. It was said that he was to bestow lordship to the family." Aragorn cut in with a sigh, "Since that time the family has been held in high honour amongst the Dúnedain. It is unfortunate however to be still not considered nobility."

"But Master Legolas, you're the prince of the Woodland realm. Doesn't that make your wife a princess?" Sam asked in earnest. "Is she not a Lady now?"

"It does," Aragorn answered before Legolas. "However it does not repay the three thousand year old debt owed to her family."

"But can you not change that, bestow a lordship?" Merry asked Aragorn innocently, "You are the rightful king of men."

Aragorn looked down at his hands and sighed, "If it were possible, I would have done so many years ago."

Legolas smiled knowingly at his friend and shook his head gently but again remained silent.

"You must miss her terribly, Mister Legolas." Pippin's voice called out softly from the growing darkness. "I do hope you will be reunited soon."

Legolas's throat constricted hearing at the hobbits words, and took a second or two to relax enough find his voice. "Thank you, Master Pippin. That is too my hope." The pain of his separation from her was an agony none of the others would ever understand. For him, he could only imagine the pain of her death to be a worse agony to endure.

"Do you think we can meet her? Would she want to meet us?" Merry asked softly, his voice becoming a touch sleepier than before.

Reaching inside to the secret pocket hidden deep inside his tunic, Legolas fingered the small pouch that he'd stowed there. Feeling the pouch and knowing it was there was a great comfort for him and aided in quashing the despair in his injured heart, "She would be greatly honoured to meet you, Master Merry."

0000

The next day was bright and sunny, and the company were all in good spirits. Peregrin Took was seemingly the highest spirit of all, wearing a face of peace and contentment.

Seeing Legolas's tall form walking ahead, he smiled and quickened his pace to catch up. After last night's conversation, Pippin now felt the barrier had been lifted and could comfortably speak with the ancient one.

The elf smiled down at him when he reached his side, "You seem to be in very good spirits today, Pippin."

"Who could bleak on a day like today?" he grinned, looking around the dramatic landscape, made brightly green by the abundance of warm sunlight.

Legolas nodded to him, "My heart is indeed lighter today."

"I have heard it can be helpful to talk, you know, unburden the heart," Pippin stared for a moment then breathed in to ask his question, "Will you tell me more about your wife?"

Legolas raised an eyebrow, "What is it you wish to know, my friend?"

Pippin smiled eagerly, "Will you tell me how you met? It must be a fine story."

Legolas considered that for a moment, "a fine story? Of that I am unsure, though I do recall it very fondly."

"If you tell it to me, then I can say if it is or isn't."

Chuckling lighting, he agreed, "Very well."

"What did you think when you first saw her?"

Legolas's brow furrowed slightly, "I did not think; my mind was already weightless and free with the light and life of that summer's day and I had not a thought to call my own."

Pippin's frown caused the elf to shrug and continue, "I was not myself, you see. Up until that day my life had been simple but harsh, never allowing myself to revel in happiness or contentment, moving from battle to battle, day to day. Then upon one day riding up north under the wondrous heat of a summer's day, I felt joyful. I cannot recall a time before that day where I had felt such lightness of spirit. Indeed my manner was so changed; I should have not known myself."

"What caused this joy?"

"I would think it the light and life brought forth by the sun and the simple freedom to be out riding amongst such an abundance of beauty." He chuckled, "or perhaps I was under the lure of a happy spell."

"And that is where you met her?"

Legolas paused and allowed himself to be swept up into the memory, "When my eyes fell upon her she was keeling in the grass and leaves, her dark hair made luminous by the bright sunlight, and the gentle song she sang floated in the soft breeze, sung whilst gathering apples and nuts from the ground. A new song started in my heart, strong and vibrate, the beat of it quickening my pulse and numbing my fingers. The melody spoke to me, bidding me to call out to her, to speak with her."

Pippin stared at him in wonder, "It was her song that called you to her? That you fell in love with?"

Legolas looked to the hobbit and shook his head, "It was not only her song that drew me to her but did give me enough cause to stop and seek a conversation. I did not I love her so abruptly either. Yet as I spoke with her something within me was captivated. She was," he smiled, "enchanting . . ."

00

It was a hot and sunny day. Sunlight streamed fiercely down upon the small hills and valleys, lighting up the tops of the forests, and filtering down to the ground below. The wind was fresh and fragrant, the smell of life basking in a glorious late summer's day.

A lone figure sat atop a magnificent young grey stallion as white as freshly fallen snow. The figure rode at a gentle walking pace, his lungs breathing in deeply the beautiful song of the late morning air. His cloth was of the finest make, in tones of the forest of his homeland. Long brown leather boots sat at ease in the stirrups, covering long legs up to the knee to be met by dark green trousers and suede jerkin. Peeking underneath, tapered by two brown leather bracers, was a fine tunic.

The shine of the tunic's silver matched the colour of the rider's eyes.

A dark cloak, normally carefully wrapped around the figure's long frame, was on this day pulled back to allow the passage of both light and air. On the figure's back strapped a bow, a quiver full of well crafted arrows, and two very gracefully decorated white handled blades.

The beauty of the day had bid the figure to abandon his wish for anonymity and bask in the glory of light and life. The cloak's hood, normally pulled far forward to ward off curious eyes, today was swept back to reveal a long mane of silky golden hair shimmering in the sun.

Most notably about the rider however was a pair of pointed ears.

The road had been deserted for six days now as the rider kept to his journey. The stony road had stopped its restless tight winding through forest and mountains, settling for gentle slopes and bends upon green plains, travelling along a great forest remained to the right and cleared grassland to the left.

This area was known by most as simply 'the north'. Indeed the area was in the north of Middle Earth but was also considered inhospitable by all those whom had chosen not to live there. It was a landscape greatly sculptured by thousands of years of unforgivable winters and flood waters supplied by rain and the mountains to the west. The north was known to be grasslands stretched over endless plains, gently hills, large untamed forests, torrent rivers, infinite sky, and icy cold nights. Even in summer the chill of night could turn water to ice.

However, for this day, the figure mused, the north could not have been more perfect. The warmth from the sun of his face, the scent of life in his nostrils and the sound of dozens of birds in the forest lulled the rider along the path. Late summer blooming wildflowers lined the top of the next crest as the stallion eased them slowly over towards them.

A recent gift from his father and proudly named Aglarebon, his mount was as contented as his master to gently glide them across the land, giving not the slightest hint for want of haste.

Once at the top, the road levelled out over a completely different landscape.

To the right, the forest did continue, however the left side lay a farm of fruit trees, nut trees, herbs and vegetables. The apple trees bore the last of the season's bounty and as the horse and rider gently passed by the trees, he wondered to himself the method involved in cultivating such a vivacious establishment.

Not that a warrior like himself cared for such things.

A small road ahead bled off the main road to a small cottage, built sturdy from wood and stone, and a small cascade of grey smoke escaping through the small chimney. Sneaky out from behind the cottage was a little animal barn and large wood stack. Well maintained gardens surrounded the cottage and even lead up the path to the road.

It was not until Aglarebon had almost reached the small path that the rider noticed a woman kneeling down beside one of the trees, picking up a few of the nuts that had fallen there. Beside her lay two baskets, one full of the day's best apples, and the other had more gatherings of herbs and nuts. The woman had not yet noticed them.

The rider considered continuing on his way without making his presence known. He had never been one for making idle small talk, particularly with those of other races.

Yet without reason he guided his horse to stop not far from the woman.

It was only then he heard the faint melody of her song, almost too soft for even his keen ears to pick up. The poignancy of the words so delicately sung held him in strange rapture; words speaking to him of despair and agony, yet the hopefulness of dreams.

He watched the woman as she continued to gather nuts, her song continuing, beautiful and wretched, and far too gloomy for the lightness of the day. He did not continue on his way though, choosing to remain as he was sitting on his calm mount, listening with his mind floating up above, not able to feeling anything but the brisk beating of his heart against his chest.

All too soon her song ended. For many moments he did not move, nor look away from the sight of her. What powers could a simple song possess?

Many moments passed until finally he decided. It was such a glorious day and he was in a good mood. Why not make pleasant conversation with one of the north's people? Something inside him was compelling him to speak to her.

The figure breathed in deeply and could almost believe he smelt the sweet tantalizing scent of the apples and woody nuts. Setting his features to a pleasant expression, he lightly called out to the woman in a friendly voice, "Good morning to you, mistress."

The woman's head shot up at once and her bright eyes keenly finding him, blinking at him for a good moment. Then at once she gathered her skirts and the two baskets and stood. Bowing her head smoothly she greeted him in return, "Good morning, my lord. May I be of assistance to you?"

Her voice was soft and her features very feminine, her dark hair a dazzling cascade down her back. Yet her question struck him as a little odd. "Assistance?"

The woman walked closer to where Aglarebon stood, "Forgive me if I am wrong, but I had assumed you have lost your way."

That raised a well defined eyebrow, "Why would you assume so?"

"This road is seldom used by strangers," she explained, and then looked pointedly at him, "And even so, never by elves, Sylvan," she paused, "nor _Sindar_. If it be your wish I would be honoured to help you find your way?"

There was something in her expression that made him smile, "None of my kind venture this way and yet you can deduce so much about me by just my appearance?"

Her expression was close to a smile, but to his regret, not as committed as his. "You are assuming the people of the North have never ventured south? Or cannot recognize the craftsmanship of cloth or weapons?" The woman centred her gaze upon his eyes, "Or the _grey_ of one's bearing."

"Indeed, mistress," his smile grew pleasantly and he inclined his head to her, "I apologise for my false assumption."

"There is no need, my lord." The woman smiled finally, warm and kind. "You will find folk around here know well of the ways of the Eldar, and particularly hold those subjects of the great elf-king in the highest honour," she told him happily. "King Thranduil has been most generous to us as we are the 'watches of the north'."

The elf again raised an eyebrow. She was then indeed one of the Dúnedain he had been seeking, "Truly? Yet none from his realm venture this way."

Her slightly amused bearing did not falter, "There is no great value around here to arouse a strong enough interest worthy of the lengthy and perilous journey."

"I would not agree," he said dryly, his gaze settling easily into the brightness of her eyes, "As this day alone has brought forth much interest and beauty."

The small laugh she made was as pleasant as her manner, "Then I fear I must caution you, for all beauty in this land is fleeting. Winter comes all too swiftly and without mercy."

The elf sat back in his saddle, "Perhaps. Nonetheless, that alone should not dissuade one from admiring."

The woman smiled however timidly this time, "Very true, my lord." She breathed in deep, intentionally breaking their eye contact and gesturing to the road ahead of him, "My own assumption was also incorrect; you are not lost."

"I am not lost," he agreed. "I am looking for someone."

This caught her attention and her smile wavered marginally, "Someone? Around here?" Then her features softened again, "If it is perhaps trade that you seek, most folk around here produce only enough to keep them during the long winters. None would consider sparing any for trade, at least not this late in the season."

The elf held up his hand calmly, "Please, mistress, no. I am looking for a friend of mine. His name is Strider, a Ranger."

"Strider?" she asked cautiously, her body clearly tensing.

"Or you may know him as Aragorn, son of Arathorn, chieftain of the Dúnedain," he said friendly, attempting to alleviate her sudden tension.

For a moment she studied him, her eyes looked down at his attire then back to his face. "You are not from Imladris," she stated carefully, but her posture had at least relaxed once more.

"You are correct, I am not from Imladris and I have indeed come from the Woodland Realm. I am friend to Aragorn, who bade me travel this far north to join him at the conclusion of my affairs in the south."

The woman gave a nod, "It has been two months since Aragorn's return. Unfortunately however, he has gone with a hunting party into the west for a few days now. I am not certain of the day of his return and may be a couple more days yet."

A couple days were of little concern to him. "Then I must be on the correct path," he said with an ever slight tease in his voice.

Though the woman's kind-hearted smile remained, she did not acknowledge his jest. "As friend to Aragorn, and indeed a subject of King Thranduil, you will be most welcome up at the main house, Carthal Manor. There you would be free to rest after your long journey and wait for Aragorn's return."

"I am obliged," he bowed his head. "It is far?"

"No, not far," she advised. "Half an hour's good gallop along this road and you will have arrived."

He smiled again, "Thank you. Tell me, what is Aragorn hunting? Deer?"

Instantly her face sobered, "No, my lord. Orcs."

"Orcs?"

She nodded, "They migrate constantly from the mountains to the east."

"The Mountains of Angmar?"

"And closer," she confirmed with a nod, "Every year they close in, and every year we drive them back." She looked at him apologetically, "I apologise; this is not a safe land." She paused with a question in her eyes, "Aragorn did not make mention of this?"

He shrugged, unless in large numbers, the presence of orcs was of little concern to him, "He did tell me there were dangers here." However, he frowned at her, something did not make sense, "and yet, here you are? Your husband does not believe it too dangerous?"

Immediately he saw words struck the woman and she recoiled with a step back. Her eyes narrowed slightly and her jaw clenched, "I am sure my husband would agree with you, if he did indeed exist. However, poor maids manage to remain stout and survive each day without husbands."

"Forgive me, mistress, I meant no offense," he said honestly. "Only perhaps a misplaced concern."

At once she relaxed at his words and a tint of red flooded her cheeks, "In that case I thank you for your concern. I am sorry for manner."

He studied her for a couple heartbeats, "A common misassumption?"

This earned him another pleasant smile and a small laugh. "Yes. One I fear I will always endure."

"I should have learnt from my last assumption," he smirked, and said wryly, "However the remedy may be very simple."

Her pleasant laughter was as infectious and her eyes lit up. "Marry?"

"A very simple solution," he granted, his tone boldly teasing.

The woman's smile, though sceptical, continued to light her eyes, "Perhaps not as simple as you may think."

He laughed openly, "Alas, not a topic I am well versed."

The woman's countenance became slightly awkward but then brightened, "It is not often a stranger of such a like ventures in these parts. May I offer a small gift?"

"Of course, you may," he agreed but with a raised eyebrow in slight suspicion, his jesting mood suddenly forgotten. Not only was he not well versed in matters of marriage, but also the customs of north. What gift did she intend? The manners of mortal women towards him and his kind often were found to be quite unwelcomingly suggestive, inappropriate and forward. He could go as far to say 'vulgar'.

Had his open manner provoked something similar in her?

However the woman simply smiled and taking an apple from the basket she placed it in front of Aglarebon's nose, "He is beautiful." She stroked his neck admiring as the horse took the apple enthusiastically, "Never before have I beheld a beauty to match."

The elf laughed heartedly; realising with quite some embarrassment that he had again completely misunderstood, "Careful, you will feed not only Aglarebon's belly but also his vanity and then he will be beyond all persuasion."

Aglarebon continued munching on his apple and pressed his face into her hands. Stroking his head, she leaned closer into him and whispered, "Te thand, pen vain? Ci bain athan ind? (Is that true, pretty one? Are you beautiful beyond sense?)"

Aglarebon pressed his head into her with affection at her words, and the elf's lips spread in a wide smile, "Pedil Edhellen, Heril? (You speak Sindarin, lady?)"

The woman looked back to him, her face dubious. "These _are_ the lands of the Dúnedain," she proclaimed proudly, moving forward and held up another apple. "For your journey?"

Without hesitation he took the apple from her gratefully, his eyes not straying from hers, "Le fêl. (You are generous)." Then remembering his manners he reached into in coin purse, "He mabath- (Here please take-)"

Gracefully she stepped away from him, "It is but a small gift and gifts require no payment."

He dropped the coin back into the pouch in surprise for most mortals always seemed to be anxious to relieve him of coin. He held his hand to his shoulder, he bowed his head, "I am honoured by your generosity, my lady." Stowing the apple inside his tunic, he regathered Aglarebon's reins.

"You are welcome." she inclined her head, but quickly raised her eyes straight back to his, "however I must beg your pardon. I am no lady."

It was a moment before he responded, "Do you truly believe title alone bequeaths nobility?"

The woman stared compellingly into his eyes and told him with a quite yet firm conviction, "No, I do not."

He did not smile but purposely hold her gaze, "Nor do I."

Another tinge of blush caressed her cheeks, "You are kind, my lord." She hesitated, "May I press you for your name?"

He sighed; bitterness suddenly rose within him and threatened to sour his fine mood, "I am sorry for I have gladly left my name back in my homeland." Breathing in he gladly allowed his playfulness to resurface. "However if it so pleases you, you may name me as the wandering elf," he paused, once more staring deep into her bright eyes, "who stopped to admire the splendours of this fine day."

Her brow rose in surprise, her cheeks flushing once more from his words, "Are all your kind in the great wood so gifted with silver tongues?"

The elf laughed easily, "Not to my knowledge." He breathed in the warm air deeply and sighed, "Alas, I feel I must continue on my way." He bowed his head, "Farewell."

The women returned his bow, "Good day, my lord."

As Aglarebon walked on, the lone rider watched the woman out the corner of his eye as she too watched him in return. No longer able to wait, he pulled out the apple from his tunic and greedily took a huge bite, the crunch satisfying, and allowed the juicy sweetness join his already fair mood.

After another bite, he turned to glance back at the farm but much to his disappointment, the woman was nowhere in sight.

A strange conversation. Upon hearing her song, he supposed her to be cheerless and broken, and yet the opposite had been true, and found her a welcome addition to the beautiful day.

And for himself, musing thoughtfully as he chewed, he could only surmise his uncharacteristically playful and almost flirtatious behaviour had come from the warmth and light of the day, filling him with irrepressible joy and light-heartedness.

Aglarebon rumbled deep in his throat, causing his master to look down at his almost finished apple. After one final and large mouthful, all that remained was the core. Reaching down he held it to his friend, and spoke around a mouthful of apple, "Me ónen aint lêw, sîr. (We were given many gifts today)."

It truly was a fine day.


	3. Festival of Summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Tolkien injected a lot of music and songs into his works, to be a part of the cultures he had created. I have also chosen to include singing; however I am not a song writer and not going to attempt to start now. Therefore, any song used from an external source will be credited in the author's note at the beginning of each chapter.
> 
> This chapter is also a little short, however letting it run on would cut into the flow of chapter 3. Chapter 3 is still in great need of heavy editing and will be delayed.
> 
> SONGS:
> 
> * May It Be – Written by Enya, Roma Ryan, Nicky Ryan, and Howard Shore - performance likened to that of Lisa Kelly.
> 
> * A Elbereth Gilthoniel (Passing of the Elves) – Written by Tolkien and Howard Shore

It had been one month since Legolas arrived at Carthal Manor, the last great stronghold of the Dúnedain in the far north.

Upon announcing his plans to leave the wild and visit his father in the east, his great friend, Aragorn son of Arathorn, had asked him to rejoin him here. He told him to travel to the high north of the old Arnor kingdom yet not so north as to enter the dangerous plains and mountains of Angmar.

There he would find a somewhat large community of Dúnedain, who for the past three thousand years had continued to maintain vigilance over the northernmost mountains. Trouble brewed there and had done since the rising of the black Numenoreans and their leader, the Witchking of Angmar.

Though the Witchking was driven off in defeat so long ago, his lands to this day remained a haven for all creatures of darkness.

Unlike the rangers who inhabited to the wild lands to the immediate south, the Dúnedain of Carthal Manor numbered in the hundreds, working collectively for the benefit of the community. Farming, hunting, and constant orc patrols were the life in a land of constant danger and unforgivable winters.

Yet the Dúnedain remained in solid numbers, the pride of Númenor beating strong in their hearts.

Legolas had known some of what the Dúnedain had done here in the north, for his father's kingdom sustained an alliance with them; supplies were traded for intelligence and fortitude. The Elf-King did not want to risk a rising of darkness in the north which would force him to confront enemies on more than the two sides he already fought.

It was a mutually beneficial agreement and many of the Dúnedain had expressed a great admiration for his father.

However none but Aragorn knew Legolas's true name, or indeed who King Thranduil was to him. All the Dúnedain knew of him was that he was a subject of the Woodland Realm and very welcome amongst the Dúnedain. Here they called him Sindar, for that was as much as they knew of him; he was the Sinda elf, friend to Strider, come from the south to offer the Dúnedain his bow.

The name of Legolas had not entered these lands. It never would.

The night was coming fast as a company of Dúnedain rangers, with the addition of a single elf, rode at a rapid pace along the road towards their home, the Carthal Manor. The men were anxious to return for tonight there was to be a great festivity. This day marked the start of the weeklong celebration of 'the summer that was and the fortification for the winter to come', or more plainly, the Festival of Summer.

All Dúnedain in the area, except for those on watch of course, would meet in the great hall within the manor to make merry and enjoy all that summer had brought them.

Aragorn had also told him that gatherings such as these greatly fortified the bonds between them all in face of the coming winter. For this community had survived all these longs years by strengthening each other and strong bonds of fellowship had to be enthusiastically maintained and often.

Their horses galloped swiftly over the last crest and finally they could see the lights of the great house. Three houses high it stood, one wing looking south east towards Gondor, and the second wing pointing out towards the south west, towards the Númenor city of old, Fornost. If Legolas was a bird, he would see the manor also created the shape of an arrow, aimed directly into the heart of Angmar.

Surrounding the manor ground was a great stone wall, twelve foot tall and higher in the unbroken places; it served as barrier to ward off an enemy force. At the road, the horses ran through its gates and pulled up leisurely for quarter of a league to the house.

Once there, Legolas, Aragorn and the rangers dismounted and strode up the stone stairs and into the house, leaving the care of the horses to novice rangers and elder children who were unfortunate to have duty that night.

The house was abuzz with the happy noise of hundreds of Dúnedain and the welcome smells of food.

"Sindar," Aragorn's voice came from beside him, holding a mug of ale for him. "I am sorry my friend," he said regretfully, "the wine has not come."

Legolas forced a tight lipped smile, taking the proffered mug. "Never mind, I will try to acquire the taste."

Aragorn scoffed, "You have tried to acquire the taste for ale these sixty years. I cannot see that day coming."

"Strider!" A voice Legolas easily recognised as Úrion called out to them and he saw the man walk over to them. He held up his mug to him in salute, "Sindar!"

Legolas gave a nod in greeting to the man whom he had come to know as a very proficient warrior and hunter. It had not taking long before he and Legolas had become friendly. When Aragorn was not around, it was mostly Úrion and some of the higher ranking rangers with whom Legolas kept company.

Aragorn held up his mug and asked, "Bear, how faired the hunt today?"

"The women will be busy tomorrow." Úrion, known affectionately by many as 'Bear', grinned proudly. "What of your group?"

"We discovered two day old tracks coming out of the woods of Nîr valley on the East road," Legolas told him.

Úrion frowned, "Leading to where?"

Aragorn answered after swallowing another sip of ale, "Nowhere. The tracks circled around then retreated back into the forest."

"I followed the tracks for a few leagues," Legolas shook his head, "Same as so many times before."

"The tracks once again ended upon the river?" Úrion asked him.

Aragorn breathed in deeply, "We know they are taunting us but to what end?"

Legolas took an unconscious sip from his mug, then recoiled with a scowl, "These orcs and their subdued tactics. It is not natural for them but they are learning."

His two friends nodded in agreement at first before Úrion grinned, "The women might have a few bottles fruit cordials hidden away somewhere for the children."

"Ease up, Úrion," Aragorn put a hand on Legolas's shoulder, stopping Legolas's retort in his throat, "A few more years and Sindar will be singing bright songs about the wonders of ale."

Legolas scoffed, removing Aragorn's hand from his shoulder, "I already wonder about ale and the hold it has over mortal stomachs. A dark enchantment if ever I saw one."

Both Úrion and Aragorn chuckled and Legolas could not help but join in with a light smile, "Never had I believed the day cometh where I would long for the simple comfort of a glass of my father's wine."

His words sparked a curiosity in Úrion, "You father is a crafter of wine?"

Aragorn looked away with a smile and Legolas fought his own grin, "My father is indeed a great authority on wine. However, I do not think him the laborious type to craft anything himself."

Úrion seemed satisfied and cupped his mug with affection, "Can't say I'd prefer wine myself. Ale is the drink of stout men and spirited women."

"For which I am grateful to be neither," Legolas said proudly but not without a smile. Humans were always keen to lump him in with them, to count him as a 'man', or even to compare themselves in a fruitless sport of one-upmanship against the other races of Middle Earth.

Legolas was an elf and very proud to be so. Whether by innocent slip of tongue or not, he was always eager to remind them of their error.

"Perhaps you elves should partake of ale more often; you'd might find yourselves more jovial folk-."

Úrion stopped speaking upon seeing another group of rangers flooding into the great hall, which was vastly becoming very crowded. Soon there would be standing room only.

"I should go discover how well Cordof's hunting party did today," Aragorn excused himself before threading his way through the crowd to the newcomers.

"How much equates a successful day?" Legolas asked Úrion.

Úrion shrugged, swallowing another rather large gulp of ale, "A wagon full."

He blinked in surprise, "A wagon full?"

"That's it," Úrion nodded. "For this week alone, we will hunt exhaustively with each Dúnedain in the area taking part, either in the hunting parties or the butchering and preserving. After this week, however, most will return to their homes. Here at Carthal, with so many mouths to feed we'll continue to send out small groups of hunters until winter forces us to stop. If we do not stock up enough for the long winter, our bellies will be empty before spring brings back the sun."

"You do not hunt over winter?"

Úrion snorted, "Maybe a rabbit or two. Anything else is too dangerous."

Legolas frowned in thought. It had never occurred until now the amounts of food it would take to feed a community as large as this with winter effectively shutting them off from procuring any more than a few titbits. Winter in the north was famously harsh and long, dangerous to those of mortal blood.

This sudden understanding aside, he was not surprised it had not occurred to him before now. Legolas was an exceptional hunter, come summer or winter. Not since his childhood had he been forbidden to hunt to his heart's desire for days at a time out in the deep freeze of winter. Nor was he afraid to do so. No elf was.

Although it was true elves could very well die from exposure just as mortals could, their superior survival skills and durable bodies allowed them to continue mostly unhindered by the worst extremes of weather and circumstance.

Úrion finished his mug with another large gulp and belched quietly, "I'm going for another. I'd offer you a refill, Sindar, but . . ." he trailed off with a smirk looking at Legolas's still quite full mug.

Legolas raised an eyebrow, "Are you sure you are still able walk and cart ale at the same time?"

Úrion barked a laugh, "If you ever drank more than a thimble full, we'd see whose tolerance is greater!"

A knowing look spread over his fine features, "Perhaps you would like to test your tolerance against my father's wine?"

Úrion jestingly clubbed him on the shoulder, "You got yourself a wager. Next time you see your father, bring a whole barrel!"

Legolas watched the large man walk away towards the other side of the hall in search of more ale and smirked. Perhaps next time he would. He was not one to shirk from a challenge.

Sipping more of the ale with an effort not to grimace, he looked about him. Hundreds of Dúnedain crammed into the great hall, all speaking loudly to be heard over all the others speaking loudly to be heard. Laughter rang true, plus the added crack and rumbling of a thunderstorm rolling in from the north west.

Skimming over the crowd, he tried to locate Aragorn or even Úrion for it did seem a gloomy state to be standing alone surrounded by so much merriment. He could attempt to find a conversation to join.

Yet he was ashamed to admit he knew none but a few of the Dúnedain by name.

His eyes continued to wander, searching for familiar heads amongst hundreds and that was how he saw her. The moment his sharp eyes fell on her, he knew it was unmistakably the same woman. Instead of loose and flowing, her dark hair fixed into elaborate and decorative braids around her head, disguising true length and thickness. Her dress was also finer than the one he had previously seen.

It was unmistakably be her. Why he was surprised was a mystery. Had not Úrion and Aragorn said all Dúnedain would attend?

She moved gracefully amongst the Dúnedain as he continued to watch her, each one knowing and greeting her with friendly smiles, merry humour and the occasional embrace. Her face was flushed from the heat of the crowded room, smiling, laughing and embracing as she made her slow way across the room.

"You are staring, Sindar," Aragorn's voice came from beside him.

Legolas broke off his tailing of the woman and looked to his friend whom he had neglected to notice had come to stand behind him. Aragorn was smiling, his eyes focused on the woman he had been watching.

"Who is she?"

Aragorn smiled broadly at him, "Would you like me to introduce you to her?"

Legolas was a little affronted by the look on Aragorn's face, "I already know her."

"If you know her than why do you ask who she is?" Aragorn teased, still grinning.

"I met her a month ago along the road. She had a small cottage amongst apple trees and backing against forest," he told him. "She was the one who told me you had gone orc hunting."

"Ah," Aragorn nodded, "She is Eryndes of the Dúnedain. The manor belongs to her."

He frowned, his eyes flicking back over to the woman before returning Aragorn in question, "She told me she was no lady."

Aragorn gave a short laugh, "That is true."

Legolas looked at his friend impatiently. It was plain to see Aragorn's mind was already greatly suffering from the effects of the ale.

Aragorn shrugged and took a draft of ale from his mug before answering, "Carthal Manor was so named for Carthal, who was a commoner who distinguished himself highly at the battle of Dagorlad,"

"She is his descendent?"

"Yes," the twisted bangs of his hair swayed as he nodded to agree. "After the war, Isildur gifted him land here on the provision he would watch Angmar from the east. Isildur also promised Carthal a lordship, but died before bestowing it."

Aragorn shook his head, "After that, no lordships were given to those in the north. With Isildur's death Carthal gathered a great number of the Dúnedain and gave them all an equal piece of his land, as long as they honoured the oath to Isildur to watch Angmar. The Dúnedain had this house built for Carthal to show their gratitude." He gestured to the woman, "Carthal of the Dúnedain was the honorific given to him by the Dúnedain."

Legolas shook his head, "Sounds like the usual disarray of men." He was unfazed by the glare his friend levelled at him at the racial slur he had spoken, "So why does she live in a small cottage, instead of in this great house?"

"That would be a question for her to answer," he stopped and nodded to the new figure threading her way through the crowd to them, "Hello Sali. Where is my feast? My rangers are hungry."

An old woman scowled at Aragorn, "The feast would be ready by now, Aragorn, if that slack ugly man you call your lieutenant had arrived here on time."

"Cordof brought back eight head of deer, so do not be blaming him," Aragorn admonished with a laugh, "Perhaps we would not be still waiting if would stop drinking all the ale and get back to it. We are hungry!"

The old woman scorned, "Yes, yes, you just stand there drinking while the women do all the work."

"Food, now," Aragorn jeered at her, laughing he pulled her in for a good natured embrace, "Go old woman, before I eat you for dinner!"

Shaking her head she moved herself from Aragorn's embrace muttering an obscenity under her breath. Spotting Legolas she paused to wink at him before leaving them for the direction of the kitchen.

Legolas ignored the woman and gave no impression that he had even seen her wink.

Aragorn laughed and nudged him, "She is the oldest amongst us, one hundred and ninety three years strong and so appears she still prefers older men."

"I am not a man," Legolas groused.

Aragorn laughed, "I do not think Sali would mind. If you fancy, I could ask her to watch the stars with you?"

Legolas rolled his eyes in aggravation, "They had better feed you soon, Aragorn, or I will be picking you off the ground again."

The ranger's laugh stopped short, his upper lip curling, "That happened but once, Sindar."

"Aragorn?" a feminine voice called before Legolas could retaliate.

Aragorn turned around to face the one who called to him with a broad smile and swung his arms around her for an overly affectionate embrace.

"Where have you been hiding?" she asked him still smiling.

Aragorn shook his head, setting the woman back down onto the ground and releasing her, "Right here, Eryndes. I have not moved. And you, hiding out in that shack you insist hiding in?"

Her answer was a patient smile, "We are ready for you now if you would like to begin?"

Aragorn chuckled lightly, "Of course. Sali gave the impression it would be some time."

"Sali's been at the ale a little too long to be reliable tonight," the woman laughed. "If you would like to begin?"

"Yes," he told her but continued to hold her hand, and turned back around to face Legolas. "Before that Eryndes, I believe you have already met my friend, Sindar?"

The woman's eyes followed his gesture and smiled upon recognising him. She bowed her head, "Good evening, my lord. I see you found your way."

"Indeed," he said briskly, an odd defensiveness sweeping overwhelmingly through his veins.

The woman's smile flicked at his frosty tone, "It is nice to see you again and I hope you feel welcome here."

He watched her with a critical eye. He felt his muscles tense, his feet rooted to the floor and answered her plainly, "Thank you."

Breathing in the woman looked away from him gestured to the crowd with her awkward smile, "Please forgive me, but I have hundreds of mouths to feed. Aragorn?"

Aragorn nodded to her and she left. The ranger then turned to him, "You have a lot to learn about women. You should not have been so rude."

"You play these same silly games of yours all throughout the years," Legolas told him harshly, defensively, "do you expect me to play along forever?"

Aragorn's merry face became very serious, "There is no game this time. Eryndes is sister to me, to be respected as such and certainly not an object of any game."

"You are the one who insists on these games." Legolas's eyes narrowed, "And you have no siblings."

"Indeed I have not, not by birth in any case. I took Eryndes as my sister when her family died."

His eyes remained narrowed, his odd defensiveness remaining in his set jaw, "Very well then."

Around them came the cries for silence.

"Good evening, Dúnedain." Legolas looked to where the voice had come from and saw the woman, Eryndes, standing on a stack of wooden boxes, looking around at the crowd.

Everyone started to quieten further and she waited until almost full quiet. "Another summer has about gone and winter approaches. This night we celebrate both equally for what we have accomplished together and for what we will overcome in the year to come. I welcome all to partake in the bounty of summer. Each may take their fill. However, the Chieftain would have me warn you any food wasted through whatever means will suffer the wrath of the Chieftain's vengeance," she looked to Aragorn, "What punishment shall be given this year, Strider?"

Aragorn called out loudly, "Let all be forewarned, the punishment for food wastage is to spend the whole week washing dishes and mucking stables."

The crowd of Dúnedain laughed.

"And which song will you favour us with tonight?" Aragorn asked her across the hall, cutting across the laughter.

Legolas watched her mildly surprised.

"As always, the choice falls to you. What would you have of me?"

Aragorn smiled warmly, "There could be only one."

"As you wish," she inclined her head.

"Dúnedain! Let the feast of summer begin!" Aragorn called out.

Legolas still maintained his watch of the woman, but addressed Aragorn, "She will not sing now?"

"Once everyone has had their fill of food," Aragorn informed him. "It is a tradition now to open the week with a song from the mistress of the house. It started a long time ago when her mother was mistress."

"As is the chieftain's privilege to select the song?"

"Of course. That is when I am in fact here, which is rare to say the least. But do not despair, you may request another if you find her performance is to your liking," his voice brightened with tease.

"I have never shared your enthusiasm for music."

"Very well, my friend," he said cannily. "Though I am sure she would be happy to perform an elvish song for you." He continued in all seriousness, "She does know quite a few."

Eryndes had disappeared now to the kitchen and he looked to Aragorn, "Thank you but that will not be necessary."

"Do not be so concerned, I will keep your staring in confidence."

"My staring? Did you not just declare her off-limits to your games?" He frowned and looked closely at the ranger, "Or is it simply that you have had too much ale."

Aragorn shrugged nonchalantly, "Not by half, I assure you."

"Perhaps then you are unwell?" Legolas growled at him in a low voice. "Did you not just call her sister?"

Aragorn held up his hands in a gesture of peace, "I apologise; you were not staring."

A general voice of appreciation and awe rose up through the great hall as at least three dozen woman and another dozen older children walked out of the kitchen carrying huge trays of different foods and dishes, so big each tray was carried by two women. The crowd parted way and allowing the procession of food make their way down the long table, where each tray was carefully placed.

People began taking food on to plates that were stacked high in towers of fifty, and moved off to allow others through in a civilised accord.

An hour later and most of the food had been eaten, only a third of the massive trays still held small handfuls of meats, cheeses, breads and fish.

Legolas watched Aragorn moving through the hall to the space under the great tapestry. He had only just left him, the both having stood together eating happily and speaking at length about tactics and mulling around how best to combat the orcs new novel approach to warfare.

"My friends!" Aragorn called out, his voice clearer than it had been an hour ago. At Legolas's insistence, Aragorn had eaten a hearty meal and quickly. The food had helped and Aragorn was once again standing tall and solid.

The noise around the room diminished at an impressive rate for those consuming far too much ale.

"My friends," Aragorn started again once the room was completely quiet. "We stand here together as one and yet another year has passed. The efforts of each and every one of you has assured the continuance of the Dúnedain. This summer has been fortunate, and as we look towards the face of another winter, we do so with strength and fortitude!" He paused, grasping his mug to one hand, "I thank you all." He raised his mug in salute. Many shouts of thanks filled the room and Aragorn had to hold up his hand for silence. "Now is the time to celebrate a fruitful summer. Now is the time for entertainment. Where is Eryndes?" he called out to the crowd. A general cheer rose up through the roof, "Eryndes, if you would be so kind?"

Through the cheering crowd, Legolas spotted her filtering her way to where Aragorn stood. She smiled at those who continued to cheer her on, and finally reached Aragorn.

Aragorn put his hand on her arm, again waving the crowd into silence. "Before you begin however, I do have a special request of you."

"Oh?" she said with trepidation.

Aragorn smiled broadly, "In honour of our special guest this year," he pointed to Legolas, "Sindar, I would request not one but two songs from you."

Eryndes looked into the crowd cautiously. "And what is the second song you would have me sing, my lord?"

"A Elbereth Gilthoniel," he looked over to where Legolas stood and bowed his head, "In the original Sindarin."

Eryndes smiled politely and too inclined her head Aragorn. "An honour and pleasure, my lord."

Legolas watched them, but did not speak for it did not please him the attention Aragorn had brought upon him.

Aragorn was merry and swept his hand out to the crowd. "Dúnedain," he addressed the crowd, and then turned to gesture to Eryndes, "Eryndes of the Dúnedain."

The crowd cheered and Eryndes smiled again, but stepping to where she should stand to sing, her face became passive; all her focus directed to her task.

"May it be an evening star,  
Shines down upon you.  
May it be when darkness falls,  
Your heart will be true.  
You walk a lonely road;  
Oh, how far you are from home...

Mornie utulie (darkness has come),  
Believe and you will find your way.  
Mornie alantie (darkness has fallen),  
A promise lives within you now...

May it be the shadows call,  
Will fly away.  
May it be your journey on,  
To light the day.  
When the night is overcome,  
You may rise to find the sun.

Mornie utulie (darkness has come),  
Believe and you will find your way.  
Mornie alantie (darkness has fallen),  
A promise lives within you now . . .

A promise lives within you now . . ."

As she finished, the crowd cheered once more, however it was not as loud as before, though it was not obviously from the woman's lack of talent. Many faces were solemn and some were wet with silent tears. Many had even whispered the words to the song as she had song them.

It was not hard to understand why. Since he had come to be amongst the Rangers in the wild, Legolas had heard that song being sung many times. Aragorn himself had repeatedly sung it over the years. The song was undoubtedly very close to all of the Dúnedain.

Eryndes bowed her head to the crowd, but didn't speak. Instead, she again focused herself, this time taking great effort to control her breathing. Then she began:

"Fanuilos heryn aglar

Rîn athar annún-aearath,

Calad ammen i reniar

Mi 'aladhremmin ennorath!

A Elbereth Gilthoniel

I chîn a thûl lin míriel

Fanuilos le linnathon

Ne ndor haer thar i aearon.

A elin na gaim eglerib

Ned în ben-anor trerennin

Si silivrin ne pherth 'waewib

Cenim lyth thílyn thuiennin.

A Elbereth Gilthoniel

Men echenim sí derthiel

Ne chaered hen nu 'aladhath

Ngilith or annún-aearath."

The woman took a couple quick breaths to regain herself whilst the Dúnedain again showed their great appreciation. Smiling, she bowed politely and turned to leave. However her escape from the crowd was hindered by those surrounding her.

They all looked over to him, and soon all of the men and women around him looked to him pointedly, their applauding stopped to look at him expectantly.

Legolas did not smile, but bowed his head low and then said, "I am honoured, Eryndes of the Dúnedain. I have never heard a more beautiful rendition." It was the truth; he had not. A voice so strong and pure and the fervour in which it was sung was beautiful, but had also left his heart numb.

The people all around his raised that mugs in salute to him, and Eryndes inclined her head, then quickly stepped away into the crowd.

"I spoke the truth?" Aragorn said as he walked over to him. "Beautifully done, no?"

Legolas nodded, then sighed, "Undoubtedly, however remarkable singing aside, I fear such song has brought about a sadness within me."

Aragorn stared at him, all mirth fading quickly from his face, "My friend, that song has remained longer than your own long life. The only change is the singer and I do not believe my sister's singing could make anyone sad." He hesitated, "Could this feeling have more to do with the darkness that has forebodingly crept back into this world?"

He considered for a moment. "It is possible."

Aragorn's own merry manner had been dissolved and replaced by his own fears. Legolas felt guilty to have brought his friend down on such a festive occasion. He breathed in deeply, allowing the power of life rekindle his spirits. "Come, Aragorn. This is a joyous night for the Dúnedain. Do not allow me to dampen your spirits." He reached for the mug that he had abandoned earlier and held it up, "Almien (to good fortune (cheers))!" and he drank deep, trying not to wince at the taste.

Aragorn chuckled lightly, "It would be much more convincing if you didn't gag."

Legolas joined his laugh, "It is the intention what counts."

"Next time I will ensure we have some very fine wine for you."

Legolas took another deep mouthful, "I will adapt." He choked, "Though I cannot understand how men beheld mouldy grains and determined a suitable drink could be made from them."

"You know very well it is fermented grain." Aragorn smiled as he lifted his own mug to his lips. For a long moment, Aragorn remained quiet. "Perhaps this sad feeling is not due to a dark and sinister affliction, but more an affliction of," he paused, "loneliness."

Legolas shook his head and looked out to the crowd of people around them. "I am no longer as alone as I was when we first met."

He could feel Aragorn's eyes on him, but when he did not respond, he turned back to look at the ranger and raised an eyebrow in question.

Aragorn put a hand on his shoulder, "Well I am at least glad of that. To small victories!" he held up his mug.

"Small victories," Legolas replied holding his mug to Aragorn's.

Legolas stood out on the terrace on the third floor. The night was still and the moon's absence invited a blanket of stars to fill the black sky.

The terrace was dark, not a breath of wind disturbed his solitude. Fortunate also was that the noise of the feast's last participants still down in the great hall was much diminished up there.

Legolas did not dislike men. They were so unlike his own people that the differences had entertained and amused him for many years.

Yet it had been sixty years now. Athough he had not spent all of it with the rangers in the wild, he did sometimes grow weary of them. There were a couple he could count as friends, but none did he share the same depth of bond or familiarity as he did with Aragorn.

He and the rangers trained and fought together but there was no complete honesty in his friendship with them. None bar Aragorn knew of his name.

Hence Legolas spent a lot of the past month in self initiated isolation. During his years with the rangers in the south, he had the trees and the wind and the freedom to keep him company.

He felt disconnected with the natural world here at the Carthal manor. Aragorn needed him and there was much to be done here to keep him occupied and so the thought of leaving never entered his mind. Yet Legolas still lamented the lack of variety in his companions, for even though Aragorn was his friend, there was only so much time of the day they could be spent in each other's company.

And so, most nights Legolas sought the company of the stars.

At least they were not boisterous and were fair to look at.

One of the doors out onto the terrace opened and closed gently. A soft whisper of light mortal steps filled the solitude of the night.

The figure walked without purpose, a hand run along the railing and head lifted towards the stars.

For a blink Legolas had thought to announce his presence, but did not as he did prefer to remain unseen. Better the female continue to go about her business and leave him without a sound.

Abruptly the figure's head turned to look straight at him even though he had not made the slightest twitch. "Oh, my lord. Forgive me intrusion."

If this was a part of one of Aragorn's games, to send this woman, his so named sister, to watch the stars with him, Legolas would be no longer accountable for his actions.

He was about to resign himself to respond with conversation when her head lowered to him, "Good evening," and promptly turned and left the terrace.

Surprised that she had once again proved him wrong, Legolas was still no doubt grateful for his reinstated isolation.


	4. Tactics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About Legolas’s character: Elves are perfect – this is the impression I get when reading Tolkien’s works. Reading/watching LOTR, as much as I loved the Gimli/Legolas dynamic, I never thought there was a story I could write for Legolas. He was just too perfect. Reading a story about perfect people is boring!  
> Then came the Hobbit movies and suddenly there was a story. I could imagine Legolas as a real character, full of wonderful flaws and personality to explore and develop. However, the elves are still meant to be perfect – again, I find this boring. So, I have added, subtracted, and turned things on their head a bit. I am sorry if anyone reads this story and feels the character is wrong, or that the story is rubbish because Legolas won’t sing, cannot do everything perfectly, or has a bit of a foul temper. I do it because I cannot even attempt to tell a story with a perfect fellow. I have tried to balance perfection and character though, and hopefully will not be too much of a departure from readers’ expectation.
> 
> Fan fiction gives people the platform to learn and practice their writing skills; to learn about pace, plot, balance and character development. This above all is what I am trying to learn. Any feedback is welcome.
> 
> **Sindarin translations by Dreamingfifi of realelvish. Net
> 
> *** Songs: The Wild Song, Written by Michael McGlynn, performed by Anúna with solo by Lynn Hilary.
> 
> Warning: - Very mild violence and the suggestion of torture.
> 
> \- Still don’t have a beta, so apologies for any mistakes. You don’t always pick up everything when reading your own work.
> 
> 000  
> .

Legolas watched Aragorn wince noticeably for the fifth time up at the sun which was streaming down hotly upon them. The day had yet to reach noon but all of the men in the company were sweating atop their equally sweaty mounts as they ambled along the long straight stony road. The fifteen men and one elf had completed their morning patrol and were now headed back south along the north road towards Carthal for a welcome respite.

The scorching morning air had all but melted away the joyous spirits of last night’s feast. The sounds of heavy hoof-falls against loose stones and the occasional snorting from hot, impatient horses cut into the dreary buzzing of insects at play in the long grass.

Legolas watched Aragorn rub his temples with yet another wince. His friend was not well this morning. He was well aware Aragorn’s suffering was not caused simply by a breezeless, sultry day.

“How fares your head, Strider?” Legolas asked him with a deliberate overabundance of cheer. Aragorn had drunk far too much ale last night, just as Legolas had warned him. Even now as they and their company of rangers slowly rode back towards the manor, Aragorn would not increase the pace passed a decent walk for fear of further paining his head. During their patrol that morning, Aragorn had not slowed the company in favour of his or indeed anyone else’s head, but as now they were making their way homeward, a small compensation was consented.

“My head is just fine,” Aragorn grumbled at his side. They walked their horses together along the road in front of their patrol, Aglarebon, a recent gift to Legolas from his father, the taller of the two, both horses grumbling impatiently amongst themselves.

Legolas held off allowing his mirth to spread to his face, “Perhaps next time you will heed my wisdom and not drink so readily.”

“Perhaps next time you will try to take part of a celebration and enjoy yourself,” Aragorn muttered, obviously not keen to be mocked in his poor state, “instead of your usual prideful, aloof self.”

“I was my perfect, amiable self,” he smirked. “And those who think me otherwise do not know me well enough to offer an opinion.”

However Aragorn snorted loudly, “Tell that to my sister.”

Legolas’s brow rose, “I find it curious that in these sixty years, you have not once mentioned having a sister, honour or otherwise.”

“Sindar,” Aragorn sighed, sitting up in his saddle, “it has been only just over thirty years since her father and brother died and I swore her family. Tell me just how long did it take you to tell me your real name?”

“Do you suggest you had a purpose for hiding her?”

Aragorn shrugged then winced again from the pain the movement caused, “I learnt long ago the value of discretion and never more so than with own my kin. I never mention her when I am away from Carthal for fear not only would she share in the shame of my name, but also the danger my name could bring if it were discovered.”

Legolas turned away to once again search the horizon surrounding them and considered it could be understandable for Aragorn to attempt to shield his kin. “Sounds reasonable,” Legolas admitted somewhat reluctantly. On the other hand though, “It was twenty four years.”

Aragorn looked at him blankly.

“I gave you my name after twenty four years,” Legolas clarified

The man frowned, rubbing the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, “Are you certain? My mind remembers it being many more years than twenty four.”

“Perhaps your mind is aged?” Legolas offered dryly.

“I am not old,” Aragorn growled.

Legolas shrugged indifferently and patted Aglarebon on the neck hearing him again rumbling his displeasure at the company’s languid pace. “Perhaps if you would keep your hair clean and fixed upon your head and not to your face, you would not seem so aged.”

Aragorn shot a glare at him, but then smiled and laughed, “I still maintain you are envious.”

“Of a hairy face?” he scoffed incredulously, “Why would I want to look like a dwarf?”

“Women are fond of beards; a well grown beard symbolises manhood, adulthood.”

Legolas set his jaw and looked away to the grass plains to his left with a shake of his head, “If you are suggesting I have the look of a child because I lack the mortal’s beard,” he turned his hard silver eyes back on his friend, “you will wake up one morn shaven head to toe.”

“I would never suggest such a thing,” Aragorn told him but not without an air of mischief, “again.”

His glare melted and Legolas could not help but laugh. Aragorn had not only an inherent ability to put him at ease but to also bring out Legolas’s more light-hearted side, which otherwise was an unfortunate rarity. They had both lived very serious lives; each being born to high expectations with no power to choose their own fates. It had been this connection which had drawn both man and elf together into a close companionship.

However it had been their shared sense of humour which made them friends. Sixty years of steadfast camaraderie and firm friendship had made them akin to brothers.

“I am surprised you have the presence of mind to make jokes,” he shook his head and again looked out to the plains around them.

“There is always a great deal humour to be had with you around, my friend.”

Legolas heard Aragorn’s laugh from his right side, and would have joined him in his mirth but his eyes had been captured by a flash of disturbance in the long grass.

Some two hundred metres away to his left the long reeds moved against the wind and shadows danced to a tune of their own. He narrowed his eyes, focusing on the grass and the moving figures and shifting shadows.

“Sindar?” Aragorn asked, all previous mirth forgotten.

Silently, Legolas held up his hand and within a horse stride the company came to a muted halt.

“Man cenig? (What do you see?)” Aragorn whispered softly from his side.

Calmly he turned to face Aragorn and his men, each of them waiting with abated breath. “You should take care to whom you speak of such nonsense, human.” Holding up both hands he signalled to the company two fists with pinkie fingers interlocked together – _orcs, footman_. He then held up both pointers in an cross then with the right hand held up one finger extended with another one bent – _ten_.

“Oh,” Aragorn said loudly, keeping to the pretence, “Is that so, elf?”

Fingers extended, Legolas swept his hand to the left. Making a fist first he then splayed his fingers; nine fingers only – _to the left, one hundred and ninety meters_.

“It would be wise for folk who smell like pigs and wield bows like infants not to start something he cannot finish.” He then covered his eyes with his left hand – _taking cover_.

“This coming from an elf who has never done a day’s hard labour or even touched a woman?” Aragorn snarled harshly, whilst nodding to Legolas before looking to all the others. He made a sweeping gesture towards Legolas then pumped his fist before dropping his hand to rest on the hilt of his sword – _Sindar to take lead. Blitz attack on my command_.

In answer, ten of the men calmly mirrored Aragorn and rested their hands on the hilts of their swords. Four of the men with bows followed Legolas’s lead and quietly as possible took out arrows from their quivers.

Legolas laughed cruelly, “Allow my fingers to touch something that looks like a cow and smells worse? I think not!” Moving his foot forward, he grazed Aglarebon’s left flank with his toe. When Aglarebon snorted gently, he nodded to Aragorn. _Ready_.

Aragorn nodded at first, then in an instant he unsheathed his sword, ten others following in unison, and shouted, “You dare insult our women , elf!”

Legolas simply smiled and with another tap of his toe, Aglarebon shot forward then to the left in a blinding flash of speed. Two arrows flew from his bow in perfect aim ahead of him and lined up the targets for the others. The instant his arrows found their mark, four arrows flew in unison towards the targets hiding in the long grass. The battle cries of the rangers behind him joined in the startled cries of the orcs, rushing to mount a defence against the charging patrol. The orcs, having lost their need for stealth, took up their arms and squealed and roared their own battle cries, daring the rangers to do their worst.

Two more arrows met their targets with deadly elven accuracy before Aglarebon and the other horses ran thundering straight through the orc pack. Of the ten, no eleven, orcs Legolas had seen from the road, five remained standing to meet the horses crushing over the top of them; hooves meeting flesh, swords striking necks and arrows piercing organs.

Spotting one orc apart from the group, Legolas threw his horse after him. Close enough, Legolas leapt from his saddle and pounced down upon the orc, then rolling to his feet and drawing both knives from his back. The orc had slammed into the ground face first and was slowly starting to regain his bearings. Casually he walked over to him, watching the evil creature finally onto his hands and knees; Legolas unleashed a vicious kick to his stomach.

The orc slammed back into the ground with a muted cry, unable gather the air to scream. With the heel of his boot, Legolas shoved the orc even harder to the ground by the back of his head and held him there into the flattened grass. The orcs weapon was beyond any reach so Legolas looked around at the rangers. The clash had been quick, concise and all of the other orcs had been slain. None of the rangers suffered any injuries he could see.

Aragorn looked about them and was also satisfied, “Make sure they are all dead and set a fire.”

The orc under Legolas’s boot screamed a curse, loud but muffled with his face pressed unforgivably into the ground.

Legolas cruelly sneered down at his captive, “Want me to make this easy for you?”

“Filthy elf!”

Legolas bared his teeth, digging his heel in even harder, “Be careful of whom you call filthy, wretch, or you may find yourself tied up and left for the crows, alive.”

When the orc did not answer, Legolas eased off the pressure in his foot but did not allow the orc to stand, “The choice is yours; quick death or,” he paused with a malicious grin, “not so quick.”

“I will tell you nothing!”

“Very well,” Legolas gestured to the closet ranger, “Peg him to the ground.”

“Sindar,” Aragorn came over to stand by him, “We don’t have any pegs.”

Even so the ranger and another grabbed the orc by his wrists and hauled him to his feet. Legolas released his hold on the orc and stepped back. “No pegs?” he mused lightly, searching about them for inspiration, “Very well, tie him to the tree over there.”

The rangers began pulling the orc off towards the tree just beyond the pile of dead orcs.

“No!” cried the orc, pulling desperately at the rangers holding him.

“No?” Aragorn asked, “Then you have some information to offer?”

“We are here to end the Dúnedain!”

Legolas quirked his brow at Aragorn.

Aragorn looked as equally unimpressed, “Yes, this is no news to us. Your kind has been failing that for thousands of years.”

Legolas nodded to the rangers, “Continue. Make sure to remove his armour and clothing.”

“Wait!” cried the orc, “We seek to discover the heir. The heir walks amongst those at Carthal!”

“Hold,” Legolas ordered the rangers. “Speak quickly orc!”

“The heir to the throne of men; my master believes he lives,” the orc said. “He believes the heir is one amongst the Carthal rangers. He will destroy Carthal to destroy the heir.”

 

000

 

“That’s what the orc said, ‘the heir is at Carthal’? Úrion repeated in disbelief.

Aragorn nodded then rubbed his forehead, his ill state had gotten worse since their long gallop back to the manor after encountering the orc pack. “That is what he said though he may have been lying to save himself from a tortuous death.”

Legolas poured more water into his friend’s cup and firmly urged for him to drink, “A unique lie. Of all the information the orc may have offered?”

Úrion also placed more plain bread in front of Aragorn, “How could Gundabad’s foot-soldiers know this would be of interest to us?”

“Why would it not? They have been hunting for the last of Isildur’s bloodline for years.” They were seated in the great hall, having arrived back at the manor just in time for the serving of lunch. Hundreds of Dúnedain packed the tables around them, leaving their leaders to dine together undisturbed. Three of the other morning patrols had yet to return from their assigned routes and so Aragorn, Úrion and Legolas were spared a crowded table, with the rest of the table only half filled by Strider’s lieutenants. Platters filled with cold meats, cheeses and bread lay mostly untouched, waiting for the rest of the rangers to return.

“Strider is known only as chieftain of the Dúnedain, nothing more. A simple ranger who rose swiftly through the ranks to become leader,” Aragorn moved his ministrations to his temples, “an equally simple Gundabad foot soldier would not know more than that,” he paused, “Unless what was said is true and the orc master is looking in particular for the heir here at Carthal.”

“But why now? Surly the orcs have not the numbers to concern themselves with the lost king of Gondor?” Úrion asked.

“They are massing numbers, this we already know,” Aragorn answered, “But Angmar is a long way from Mordor.”

“More information needs be gathered before allowing ourselves to be sidetracked by speculation,” Legolas advised, eyeing Aragorn’s pallid colouring. “Should you not take a tonic? Or perhaps I shall go find Nestdôl for you?” he suggested. “Undoubtedly he has medicine to relief your suffering. A well used cure today I would imagine, given the state of half the Dúnedain this morning. I was doubtful the majority of your rangers would be willing to report for duty this morning.”

For a long moment he expected Aragorn to stubbornly refuse his suggestion, especially in light of Legolas’s earlier jest. Instead Aragorn merely sighed in defeat and then rose to his feet, “I will find Eryndes. She will have what I need.”

Legolas watched Aragorn cast his eyes about the hall.

“Kitchen,” Legolas offered coolly, but then scowled when Aragorn beamed shrewdly at him and stepped away in the direction of the kitchen. It would seem even despite his obvious sickly state, Aragorn was as keen as ever to play his games.

‘Staring indeed,’ Legolas thought with irritation, remembering Aragorn’s accusation the previous night. There was very little which escaped Legolas’s notice. Though many of the greater, more famous elves had magics far beyond anything Legolas had ever possessed, like foresight and enchantments etc, Legolas had been blessed with heightened senses, particular that of sight and sound. His sight was of magic and wonder, a true gift from The Creator, bestowed upon him and no known other. With eyes keener than any istari, he was able to feel and see with unparalleled clarity. Not much succeeded in escaping his notice.

Legolas tore off a bit of meat with his teeth with more force than necessary. There was no effort in keeping track of persons of interest within the hall and he had certainly had not resorted to staring after her.

Not even a minute had passed since Aragorn had trudged off in the general direction of the kitchen before Úrion reached over to Aragorn’s abandoned bread and put it onto his own plate. The man had a fierce appetite, as one might expect for a man so burly, but Úrion also hated seeing any food go uneaten. All of the Carthal Dúnedain hated it. They were a poor people and food was never so plentiful that wastage was ever acceptable. Úrion poured on a spoonful of honey and took a bite, “Strider would not see Nestdôl unless he was dying and none of the other healers were about.”

Silvery grey eyes studied to the ranger with curiosity, “Why is that?”

Úrion shrugged, chewing more of the bread, “I don’t rightly know. A family feud I believe, going on for many decades. I do have an idea it had something to do with old Fuieryn, when she was still alive.”

“Fuieryn?” he asked, taking another good hunk of cheese from the platter.

“She was the old healing mistress.”

He turned his focus back to his meal, breaking the cheese along his bread, “Not the wisest course to become at odds with the healing master.”

“There is no concern there,” Úrion told him, “Aragorn most times takes care of his own needs and all of our healers are just as competent. Even the midwives are capable healers.”

Taking a bite, Legolas chewed the bread and cheese thoughtfully.

“Quick thinking keeping that orc alive long enough to interrogate, Sindar.”

Looking up he saw the majority of the men from this morning’s patrol coming over to sit with them. Although there was no formal, rigid rule regarding rank and eating etiquette, it was never usual for the lower ranked rangers to sit with their leaders. Úrion seemed surprised too, but did not speak, feigning a pressing interest in his food.

Legolas was not grateful of their praise either, “It is a common mistake to consider even the lowest soldier unworthy of interrogation,” he told them, “for even the lowest soldier will know more than his interrogators if they do not interrogate.”

“You had that orc shaking so bad; right scared he was.”

“He really thought you’d string him to a tree alive for the sport of birds and beasts.”

Legolas saw Úrion raise a brow in mirth but he however was not amused, “There no was deception; I would have left him to the crows if he refused to speak. His kind have done a lot worse and would have shown us no mercy were our situations reversed.”

One of the men nodded, “He’s lucky you gave him a quick death. I might have strung him up anyway.”

“I am not in the habit of breaking my word,” he told them. They all seemed to be waiting for something from him, perhaps for him to offer them conversation or friendship? Or was it something about their actions that morning?

He sat back in his seat and regarded them coolly, “Strider is pleased by your actions this morning,” he bowed his head slightly, “and so I am. Your execution was flawless.”

From the instant gratitude on their faces it was clear they had been waiting for precisely that; an appraisal of their actions. Legolas had been a leader of elves, both young and ancient, all his life and was not overly surprised to find the same look for leadership here amongst the Dúnedain rangers.

“Thank you, Sindar,” one acknowledged. “The mock fight between you and Aragorn made it hard to keep a straight face and not laugh.”

“However,” Legolas put in firmly, “your mounts are another matter. I believe further work should be done to train them to be quicker off the mark; Aglarebon was forced to slow his charge.”

Another grinned, “What horse could match him? Perhaps you should allow him to cover our mares and breed his speed into our stock?”

The suggestion of mixing Aglarebon’s prized bloodline with the common horses of the Dúnedain did not sit well with him, “Though I am sure he would be happy to oblige, I do not think so.”

The men laughed in good nature, “Never mind, it was worth a try.”

“If you would, Sindar, some of us were wondering,” Legolas turned to the one speaking. A younger man than the others and obviously painfully shy, “some of us would truly benefit from your instruction with the bow, if you, if you would be willing?”

Legolas remembered this was one of the archers from the patrol, though he did not know his name. If the rangers were keen to learn from him, how could he refuse? Each of them was holding their breath.

“I would be honoured.”

Their smiles returned.

It had been some years since Legolas had taught his craft, but these rangers simply needed a few adjustments to their form. Were he to aid with those adjustments, their speed and accuracy would show immediate improvement.

“We are grateful,” the young grinned, his eyes not quite meeting Legolas’s.

Legolas gave him a nod, “Be at the target area in an hour and we shall begin.”

The rangers nodding, and clueing in on his dismissal, politely took their leave.

“Baradon and some of the younger men have been waiting, wanting to ask you that for weeks now. The Dúnedain are proud but not so to pass up the chance to broaden their knowledge and skills, especially if that lesson be from an elven elite.”

“Indeed?” He breathed in deeply than sighed. It really was time for him to start learning their names, “Baradon? I have no idea who that is.”

Úrion smirked, “Baradon is the young one who made the request. He’s a little shy but a worthy ranger. He will be one of your greater students.” The man eyed him, “You do know it is high praise to be asked?”

“Of course I do,” he told him a little irritated.

Úrion shrugged nonchalantly, “Peace, my friend, I simply wanted to make sure. In your culture maybe it's not so. You must have been quite the commander back home judging by how you handle the rangers?”

“If you are asking Sindar to reveal something about himself, you will be sorely disappointed,” Aragorn’s voice cut into their conversation, coming back to sit down at his spot. “Took me twenty four years just to be trusted with his name.”

“Twenty four years?” Úrion snorted loudly. “Is that all? I would’ve expected at least fifty.”

Legolas ignored Úrion, “Unlike the thirty years to discover you have a sister?”

“You didn’t know?” Úrion chuckled, reaching over to replace the bread he’d stolen from Aragorn’s plate. “Pray, don’t tell her that.”

Legolas shook his head then changed the subject, “You retuned sooner than expected.”

“Eryndes has many tonics close at hand. Won’t take but a few moments to work,” he said then glanced to Úrion, “Bear, I want you to increase the numbers in your patrol today. After this morning I am not keen to take any chances.”

Úrion nodded and said with mirth, “I would ask Sindar to accompany us; always good to have an elf around when there’s trouble, but he’s teaching some of our archers this afternoon.”

“Teaching?” Aragorn asked him in surprise, “You never offered to teach me.”

Legolas rolled his eyes and stood, “In all these years you have not once asked. I will walk awhile before the lesson.”

 

000

 

As it turned out, the tonic was enough to cure Aragorn sufficiently for him to join Úrion and his patrol and left shortly after lunch.

Aragorn and Legolas usually went on patrol in the mornings and Úrion took one of the post-noon patrols, which allowed them to swap the command of the manor. However, during the times when both Aragorn and Úrion were out on patrol, command of the Dúnedain fell to Legolas. None of the rangers had ever questioned his being in charge and Legolas felt that was justified. He had thousands of years of command experience and it would seem the Dúnedain understood that too.

An hour after Aragorn and Úrion’s patrol departed, taking his bow and arrows Legolas made his solo way to the archery ground. The archery practice area was on the east side of the compound, running along the stone wall one of the largest hay paddocks. It was just over a good five minutes walk away, passed the bath house, the huge wood pile, chook houses, around the south wing of the manor he met up with the south cart road. Following the cart road, he passed the blacksmith and carpenter workshops and the brew-house on the right side, orchards of fruit trees and hay/grain sheds on the left. Bees flew around him on their way to collect their bounties from the flowering vegetables left seed in the vegetable gardens. Crossing the north east road of the manor grounds and climbing over the stock fence, he landed into the post-harvest hay field. Fortunate the paddock had only just been harvested yesterday, or they would have had to contend with the armpit high long grass.

It was not much of a training area, especially comparing to compound where he formally learned the bow; this was just a couple dozen old targets on easels just in front of the perimeter stonewall.

What was a surprise however was the sheer number of rangers standing around the training ground and a lot of them young, younger than Legolas had expected. The majority were around Baradon’s age or younger. Walking over to the group, he estimated about sixty rangers and another twenty older children.

So much for a quick lesson to hone pre-existing skills and they were obviously going to have to share targets. His eyes scanned faces; none were familiar enough to put a name to face, apart from Baradon, whose name he had only just learnt during lunch.

Bashful Baradon approached him, “I beg your forgiveness if you’re displeased, but once folk heard, word spread like wildfire and many were disappointed to be left out due to their duty.”

“Fear not, Baradon,” he told the young ranger, “I am told it is a compliment.”

Baradon nodded guardedly, “We are all honoured to receive instruction from you.”

“However, this would seem to go beyond simple instruction,” Legolas eyed him pointedly, “I cannot adequately teach so many all at once.”

“Of course,” Baradon agreed hastily, “We wouldn’t expect you to teach basics,” he waved to the rangers who Legolas had already seen in action over the past month, “Many who have come are well skilled and would benefit more from your one on one instruction. The rest can be taught the basics in a group,” Baradon finished then looked down, “If that is acceptable to you?”

Legolas folded his arms across his chest, hoping he would not be forced to ask, “I know none of their names.”

The young man looked up in surprise, “I can help you.”

“Very well. You will assist me,” he confirmed, giving no hint at his relief. He turned to include all of the gathered Dúnedain and spoke loudly, “Shall we begin?”

Baradon nodded and meekly took his place beside Legolas and they walked around to the front of the large group. The Dúnedain stared at him in silence. Legolas inclined his head to them in polite acknowledgement for their attendance and then began.

 

0000

 

A few hours later, when the sun was casting its last hour of bright light over the fields, Legolas drew his first lesson to a close. Many of the younger ones were tired and eager to return to the manor for a cooling drink or equally cool bath. Some of the others elected to remain behind and practice until dinner time.

Legolas had called an end to the lesson upon seeing Aragorn’s patrol come through from the south gate far in the distance. There was no alarm in their pace but nonetheless upon seeing them riding along the long straight road dissecting the eastern fields, Legolas called an end to the lesson and walked over to meet him.

Aragorn held his hand up in greeting and slid down from his horse.

“No further incidents?”

Aragorn tossed the reins to Úrion, who nodded and led the patrol back to the stables. The two of them fell into step towards the manor, “Surprisingly nothing. Not that I was expecting to encounter a great host but I did expect something, some evidence of further orc incursion.”

“The orcs are playing with us,” Legolas reminded him offhandedly, “This we learnt from their intentionally obvious and muddled tracks.”

Aragorn wiped away the beads of sweat from his brow, “For years the orcs have satisfied themselves with random raids and stealing stock. But for them now to say they are here for me? Do you think it is possible the orcs we slaughtered this morning were deliberately placed?”

“You think they expected our languid pace because of your ale-illness, for me to spot them deep in cover, and that I would leave one of them alive long enough to question?”

Aragorn chuckled, “It does sound ridiculous when you say it like that.”

“What is needed is further intelligence. I would like to commencing the scouting missions we spoke of.”

“Yes,” Aragorn nodded, “Perhaps it is time.”

For many minutes they continued to walk together along the dusty road, only the hot breeze and their boots against the stones and dirt making any noise.

“Something busies your mind, my friend.”

Legolas didn’t answer immediately and they continued to walk back along the road towards the manor. Aragorn was acquainted well enough with Legolas’s ways to be patient; Aragorn knew he had been heard and needed to wait until Legolas was ready to speak of what occupied his thoughts.

“I accept I tend to be unapproachable,” Legolas told him finally, cutting into their silence, “I do not know why, but it is so. For the most part I have never been ill served by it, particularly amongst my own people who already held me at a reverent distance from the moment of my birth. Even in the wild with your rangers, I was one amongst many who all desired space apart from one another.”

“But?” Aragorn prompted.

Legolas shrugged, “Here it does not serve at all. The Dúnedain are oddly comfortable with familiarity, even as they are squashed together as they are for this festival.”

“You are uncomfortable here?”

“No more so than when I first came to live amongst men sixty years ago. I can endure as I did then.”

“However?”

“There is something that troubles me,” Legolas hesitated, “It is one thing to be considered unapproachable, it is something else entirely to be feared by those who should call you friend.”

“You think my people are afraid of you? I do not believe that is the truth of it. As you said, most folk are unwilling to approach you and you like it because you only wish to become familiar with those whom you perceive as worthy of your time.” Aragorn smiled knowingly, “You have little patience for prevarication or gossip mongering chatterers, much of which is a part of life in communities such as this.”

Legolas shook his head, “You may be correct about me but I tell you I do see fear and trepidation upon their faces.”

“Surely not,” Aragorn debated, “what cause would they have to fear you?”

“My father,” Legolas said suddenly.

“None know your name or the name of your father.”

“They know I am Woodland. Perhaps what they fear is any influence Sindar might have with my father.” Legolas levelled his eyes at Aragorn, “Perhaps they believe I have the power to withdraw Thranduil’s support for the Dúnedain and in fact, that is why I am here.”

Aragorn wanted to argue, he could see it on his face, but in the end he conceded, “Perhaps. This why you offered to become their teacher?”

“I did not offer, I was requested. Bear told me they were too apprehensive to make the request until they finally worked up the courage today.” Legolas shook his head, “As I said, being feared does not sit well with me. Baradon is a skilled, battle hardened warrior; a credit to the Dúnedain and worthy to be amongst the ranger elite.

“Yet even he was too nervous to speak with me until today,” Legolas set his jaw, “I do not sit well with this.”

“You know his name now and perhaps he will not be so hesitant to speak with you moving forward.” Aragorn shrugged, “If you were not always so proudly aloof and allow yourself to become familiar with some of the folk, you may find you like them.”

“As I have said, I am not aloof,” Legolas growled.

“But proud?”

He scoffed, “Of course.”

Aragorn grinned, “Lobordir is a good man. Perhaps you should start with him.”

Without warning the hairs on the back of his neck stood up in alarm. Instinctively his eyes shot to the side to the lone figure crouching there behind the old cart, his muscles stiffening ready for combat. The power of his vision saw the grass depressed by two feet from under the cart, the breeze interrupted, and the shadow cast in relation to the sun’s position and determined his hunter was of slight body and weight.

“Sindar?” queried Aragorn gently, ever the willing servant to the unequalled powers of Legolas’s sight. The years taught those around Legolas to implicitly trust in his extraordinary ability and Aragorn was no different.

A child, he concluded, no doubt seeking to test their hunting skills on an elf. Foolish. There were not many who could sneak about without Legolas’s sight catching on.

“Nothing,” he reassured his friend. “Just a child playing at stalking.”

Aragorn fleeting looked towards the cart, “A worthy prey you make to practice honing their skills.”

“I have not encountered this one before,” he commented, continuing to walk with Aragorn along the road towards the south side of the manor.

“Most of the farmer’s children come here after their home duties for lessons and the elder children help out with the running of the manor,” he explained, “More and more will come once the crops have been cleared.”

Reaching the manor’s southern wing, they threaded their way through the washing tubs, bath house and wood pile to the outside kitchen area beside the windows of the great hall. Normally there were a half dozen wooden tables set up there for the larger preparation of food. Today, however, many more tables had been added, especially under the shelter of the centuries old cherry tree growing in the elbow of the great house.

Aragorn led him amongst them, threading them through the tables and benches, children and women. In the late afternoon many of the people had finished their days chores and duties, returning to the west side to take advantage of the shade provided by the three houses high building.

However, the main hustle was from those who had yet to finish there days labour. Women, young and old, surrounded each of the many tables, aprons bloodied, hands bloody, and each of their faces flustered from the heat. Some were even still children, standing on wooden boxes to reach the table top, their hands also busy with labour.

They all sang the same song in unison. They all were armed with knives.

Other children took the bones for boiling, hides for cleaning and drying, and other waste from the beasts they carted around the corner to where Legolas could not see.

“A lot of the meat is dried or salted. All this will last us the worst of the winter months,” Aragorn told him. “They have to work quickly, especially with the heat and there is another six days worth after today.”

Legolas nodded in understanding. There was a little more than eighty women, all butchering. Hogs, deer, wild cattle, fowls, even one table was crammed packed full of fish. Eight women moved quickly with the fish less the flesh rot before it could be salted and dried.

“An impressive undertaking,” Legolas commented. He swept his eyes to his friend, “Why only the women and children?”

“It’s tradition,” Aragorn smirked. “I am not sure the women would even allow the men folk to assist.”

Legolas watched them, their faces equally as fatigued as their eyes, “Have you ever thought to offer?”

“This day is almost over. They will stop soon and begin to prepare food the evening meal.”

“What about tomorrow?”

Aragorn shot him an amused look, “You are welcome to offer your services, Sindar. However I do not recall your talents in animal butchery. If the women needed an orc butchered however . . .”

Legolas shrugged noncommittally, “There are no other services to be offered?”

Aragorn stopped at one of the tables that had twelve women hacking away proficiently at a deer. Legolas stood beside him, watching the women skilfully at work, their blades carving seemingly effortlessly through muscle and sinew, around bone, slicing into proper portions for preserving.

“Gueniel?” Aragorn spoke to one of the women. She was about Aragorn’s own age, with shortened dark hair pinned into a tight bun at the back of her neck, “How does Amdiel fair?”

The woman nodded to him and spoke in a tired voice, “Very well, Strider. ”

Aragorn smiled around at the women, “Finished singing ladies?”

Gueniel scoffed, “We have six days henceforth. We cannot sing without respite.”

Aragorn looked to his right, “Eryndes? Do you not have one more song to offer? The men are just now returning from patrol.”

His ‘sister’ looked just as weary in her bearing as the other women at the table, “If you insist, though I would have your voice join in, for here there be many tired throats and I would have yours just as tired.”

Aragorn grinned, “I thought you never tired of singing?”

The woman had so far not glanced up to look her honour brother in the eye, but now did so with something akin to defeat. Aragorn held her gaze until her eyes dropped back down to her hands and their task, then started to sing. The other women picked up the song immediately and soon enough the whole company of women and children were once again singing as one.

Legolas stared in disbelief at his friend. He leaned in slightly not to draw attention when he spoke, “Why do you insist? Can you not see their fatigue?”

Aragorn gave a small nod and answered, “Yes, however it is important in these times to keep everyone together and spirits high. The rangers return from patrols, they need to feel their efforts have merit and be rewarded by hot food and sweet singing.”

Legolas looked around at the women again, then to the men filling in through the road and fields. “Can not the men also sing?”

Aragorn gave a start then smiled and inclined his head to him. He took a position besides his sister and proudly joined in the singing, his voice at once in beautiful harmony with the women. Waving at some of the other men and women rangers who had come to gather around to watch the singing, he soon had them all raising their voices in song.

“A pale bird flies over open sea

Singing sweet soul music to me

The ancient winds crying cold and flying free

Carry winter whispers through the trees

 

A soft voice murmurs a haunting melody

As it flows to the river from a stream

The gentle breeze carries youthful memory

Through the shaded valley of my dreams

 

I have come through the darkness

Touched the moon's new fallen dew

I have found there a place

Where the wild song echoes, echoes in my heart

 

There the dawn is wide with the scent of spring

With a red sun burning on the tide

In the hazel forest the blackbird sings

Of a secret place I keep inside

 

I have travelled far, I have made the road my home

But that music never will depart

I have walked the shoreline where seabirds cry alone

But a wild song echoes in my heart

 

I have come through the darkness

Touched the moon's new fallen dew

I have found there a place

Where the wild song echoes, echoes in my heart.”

 

Once the song was done, Legolas watched Aragorn whisper into his sister’s ear. The woman nodded to him, not stopping from her work.

“What did you say to her?” Legolas quietly asked when Aragorn returned to him.

“I told her you do not eat venison.”

“The women in the kitchen already knew this whole month passed,” he growled, his eyes itching to turn back to look at the woman. Food was a luxury to these people and he preferred to keep those who knew of his particular eating habits to a minimal.

However, Aragorn seemed oblivious to this. “You are my guest and there is no harm in being sure,” he nodded towards the hall, “Let us go inside and have an ale before debrief.”

“Have you not suffered enough?” he chided in disbelief.

Aragorn gave him a patient look and waved him towards the manor.

“Have I not suffered enough?” Legolas muttered under his breath.

Together they walked through the side door along the south wing and straight into the great hall, Aragorn handed him a freshly filled mug of ale, “I noticed you did not join in singing.”

Regretfully, he took the mug scoffing, “And all those within earshot are to be grateful I did not.”

Aragorn grinned broadly, proudly. “Perhaps the women can afford you a lesson.”

“I have had all the singing lessons I care to endure; no more.”

Aragorn continued to grin then took a draft of ale, “Speaking of lessons, you have yet to tell me how it went well today. How did you find them? Will you consider continuing to train them regularly?”

They weaved their way around through the corridors and up stairs to the war room. As the patrols returned, each of the afternoon patrol’s leaders would debrief in the war room. Legolas allowed Aragorn to lead him into the room and was not surprised to see almost twenty men, each one with a report to deliver.

Legolas had known the rangers were skilled warriors, in all honesty though, he had been surprised by how quickly they adapted to his instruction, “Well enough. Most will undoubtedly improve greatly under my tutelage.”

Both of them rounded the great table where the vast area had been mapped out in great detail; from the towering mountains of Angmar in the north east to the great river snaking along the dividing range towards to sea in the far south west.

“Vanity?” Aragorn asked teasingly.

Legolas shifted his gaze from the table back to Aragorn and quirked an eyebrow in response to his friend’s tease, “Fact.”

Aragorn chuckled yet inclined his head with a smile, “Ever in your debt, my friend.”

“Nonsense,” he stated firmly. To his way of thinking, friends had no debts and Aragorn knew to say so irked him. Why humans insisted friends owed one another for their shared friendship was left him bewildered and irked.

It was a clear difference between their cultures. “Shall we?” he grunted, gesturing to the table and the men surrounding them.

At once the men stopped their own conversations and stood tall and silent in wait for their chieftain. Aragorn looked amongst them before beginning, “Yes, let us begin. This morning my patrol, covering sector twelve encountered an orc party here,” he pointed to the map. It was a long straight part of the east road, plains of grassland, flat, and trees sparse. “If they were lying in wait for an ambush, they were poorly led. The grass afforded them some cover, but that all that was to their advantage. We believe ambush was not their intention. Sindar?”

Legolas continued without pause, “Upon interrogation, one of the orcs made the accusation that his master is well aware Isildur’s heir resides at Carthal.” He paused, looking at their stunned faces, “And in seeking to destroy Carthal, they seek to destroy him.”

Silence filled the room.

“Did he say they knew the name of the heir?” asked one of Aragorn’s lieutenants whose name he did not yet know.

“There was every indication the heir’s identity has not been discovered,” he reported, “the orc knew not of the heir’s name or that it was the heir’s patrol which captured him.”

Most of the eyes in the room shifted to Aragorn, who had never been comfortable referring to himself as Isildur’s heir. “However, the orc did tell us their plan to destroy him beyond a doubt with the complete annihilation of Carthal, and every one of its people.”

“How could they know this?” called another ranger whose name Legolas did not know.

“Is there a spy amongst us” called another.

“Who would be evil to betray us to the enemy?”

“We have to find this turncoat!”

“Who could he be?”

“We should start questioning-.”

Legolas raised an exasperated eyebrow to Aragorn. These were the leaders of the Dúnedain? He did not appreciate the impatient and impetuous nature of men, but these were supposed to be level headed lieutenants. He opened his mouth to subdue them but Úrion beat him to it, speaking up for the first time, “Peace, friends. It is not even clear the orc was telling the truth. His was a choice of giving information of use to us in payment for a merciful death or to be left alive to the mercy of birds.”

“Bear speaks justly,” Legolas grounded out loudly. “Do not be so eager to engage in gossip and inciting witch-hunts.”

“Indeed,” Aragorn agreed. “We must not get ahead of ourselves and treat this orc words as innocuous until more have gathered more information. On no account should we start accusing each other of collaboration or inciting panic.”

“Why would the orc know to say so unless he knew the information he offered was worth something to us?”

“That we cannot know and will not be tempted to guess. Instead we must continue to gather intelligence whilst still maintaining the upmost vigilance and prudence.” Aragorn paused to look around the room at his lieutenants, “I do not say the orc’s words are not cause for concern. Their deliberate attempts to throw us off leaves us without a clue as to their true movements or intentions. Are they massing, do they prepare for an all out attack, or is this just a small band enjoying whatever chaos and panic they can goad us into? This is the point, we do not yet know. What I can say is the enemy has sought to destroy Carthal for thousands of years and yet here we still remain.”

Legolas stepped forward, “Intelligence is vital at this point. We must discover their plans instead of waiting for them to show their hand.”

“You plan to scout them?” the man he recognised as Lobordir asked him in surprise.

“I do,” Legolas confirmed. “In the coming days I will seek out those rangers who are willing and have the potential to become mounted scouts.”

“We have scouts already.”

Legolas raised his brow but remained silent.

Lobordir understood, “So your impromptu archery lesson this afternoon was not as impromptu as we thought? You plan to put together your own unit?”

“Indeed today’s lesson was impromptu. Some of your young rangers interrupted my lunch to ask it of me.”

“Sindar and I will be training with the group for the next few weeks before we are ready to commence any missions of deep reconnaissance. At noon debrief tomorrow I want a list of rangers from each of you, rangers who you think have the skill,” Aragorn paused, “and fortitude, for make no mistake, these missions will be dangerous.”

Aragorn looked to Úrion, who had been quiet for the last few minutes, “Úrion, shall we continue with the debrief?”

It would be another before hour Aragorn was satisfied and broke up the debrief. The all headed down the two flights of stairs to the great hall for their much anticipated second day of festivities.

At Aragorn’s insistence, he, Legolas, Lobordir, and Úrion made their way around the hall, speaking with as many of the people as they could before dinner was served. So many faces, so many names, even as perceptive as Legolas was, he knew there was no way he would remember them all.


	5. Duty and Manners

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have to admit, I’ve fretted for weeks over this chapter – this chapter being the obligatory info download chapter; lots of information, lots on new character to introduce, and of course this is the first chapter properly introducing the main OC’s. Many bits have been rewritten several times, just trying to make it more interesting . . .
> 
> Major romance clichés warning – tell me, who can guess the clichés I mean?
> 
> I saw this on the net – thought it was really good and worth sharing:
> 
> ~~Rules for Writing Romance (for Dummies!)  
>  The Expectation:  
> • A sympathetic heroine  
> • A strong, irresistible hero  
> • Emotional/sexual tension – Put them together, take them apart - repeat for as long as you can get away with it.  
> • An interesting plot  
> • A happy ending
> 
> Also, because there are over fifteen main OC’s, and a further forty non-main OC’s, in this story I’ve included a character listing. Is this a good idea?
> 
> **Sindarin translations by Dreamingfifi of realelvish . net  
> *** Still don't have a beta, so apologies.  
> .  
> .

##  _Dramatis Personæ_

Aglarebon – Woodland Stallion, Sindar’s mount

Aragorn/Strider – Male, Chieftain of the Dúnedain

Baradon/Sculls – Male, Ranger

Briel – Female, Dúnedain child

Eryndes – Female, Mistress of Carthal & Apothecary

Faron/Dusk – Male, Hunting Master

Gueniel – Female, Midwife

Laeron/Wren – Male, Ranger

Lobordir/Joust – Male, Master of Stables

Mereniel/Swan – Female, Ranger

Mydedis – Female, Mistress of Housekeeping

Nestdôl – Male, Master of Healing

Oldhin/Flank – Male, Ranger

Orthellon/Sweeper – Male, Ranger

Sali – Female, Mistress of Kitchen

Sindar/Master Elf /Legolas – Sinda Male, Undisclosed Prince of the Woodland Realm on unofficial secondment

Úrion/Bear – Male, Second in Command

.

.

0000

.

. 

“Nestdôl said it was a simple fever, a cold, gone in two days with bed rest,” the mother rushed her through the kitchen and into the children’s room, “but it’s been four days now.”

Eryndes of the Dúnedain stepped to the bedside and smiled to the eight year old girl sitting up against her pillows. The girl was pasty and clearly had a fever, but it was the fear on the girl’s face which concerned Eryndes the most. “Good morning, Naniel.”

“Good morning,” the girl greeted respectfully but her voice trembled, her eyes wide and bloodshot, beads of sweat covering her trembling forehead.

“Lie back down and calm yourself,” she ordered her gently, taking one of the pillows from behind her and easing the girl to lie down. “Breath in deep, allow your breath to reach your toes.”

Naniel did as she was told, her eyes almost shut in her wariness.

“Good girl, keep breathing. Relax your arms, imagine them floating gently down the river. Breathe. Feel it in your fingers?”

Slowly colour bled back into the girl’s face, but her lips trembled, “Am I going to die?”

“Die from a cold? How ridiculous,” she smiled kindly, stroking the girl’s arm. “Have you slept this night?”

Naniel shook her head.

“Why ever not?” she asked sternly, taking a cooling herb oil cloth and pressing it to her forehead.

The girl hesitated before sobbing, “I thought I mightn’t wake.”

“Oh, hush girl,” she admonished. “How will you regain your strength if you will not sleep? Nestdôl told you nothing more than a cold ails you and he is right. But you will not overcome it you will not allow yourself to rest.”

“Are you sure?” The child’s mother, Nanmes, asked cautiously from behind her.

Eryndes looked away from the girl, but didn’t look back at her anxious mother, “Despite your reservations, Nanmes, Nestdôl is the healing master and his diagnosis is accurate.”

“But she is not getting any better!” Nanmes blurted, her eyes welled with worry for her only child.

Eryndes patted the girl on the shoulder with a smile, “Close your eyes now and breathe as I told you. I want you to think of what you will do once you are better. You like riding your pony along the river? Think yourself there now.”

The girl looked up at her, unsure, apprehensive, but then nodded and did ask she was asked. Naniel was a good child, always so eager to do as she was told.

Squeezing her little hand, Eryndes stood, “Good girl.”

“Come,” she brushed passed the mother, waving her out the child’s bedroom, “I have a broth and herbs for you to administer over the next couple days. But most importantly she needs rest; no getting out of bed and keeping her from thinking the worst. A strong will is just as important as a strong body.”

They came to the kitchen and to the kitchen table where Eryndes’s leather satchel sat. “No more silly ideas about illnesses or plagues.”

“It is not unheard of in these parts,” Nanmes argued. “Your mother knew it.”

Eryndes said nothing to add to Nanmes anxiety. It wasn’t all the young mother’ fault; plague was a true concern amongst all Dúnedain.

Pulling out a small bottle she placed it on the table, “One good table spoon into a pitcher of water every day and ensure she drinks all of it spread throughout the day.” Next she took out a jar, “Rub this balm onto her chest or onto a cloth for her to breathe in, but careful not to get any in her eyes or mouth.”

Nanmes took the balm from her, “I remember. Chicken soup?”

Eryndes closed her satchel and tossed the strap over her shoulder, “Yes, a hearty soup and do not hold back on solids either. Keep her full of bread, if she will take it. And plenty of water in addition to the medicine; _plenty_.”

She walked away to the door.

“You’re certain it is not plague?”

Eryndes smiled at her and opened the door, “Quite certain.”

Nanmes joined her at the door and took her hand, “Thank you, Eryndes. I’m sorry I roused you so early out of bed for a cold. And in such inclement weather.”

Eryndes held her hand for a moment and said seriously, “At the very least the broth and herbs will ease her symptoms and allow her rest. I will return tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

Climbing into her horse’s saddle, she pushed him forward along the small track back to the main road. The sun had begun to tint the dark sky with shades of the coming day, filling the sky with dawn’s first light.

Yet it was not triumph lightening of the sky unto a new day. The seemingly endless blue skies of summer had been surrendered early last evening and the beating rain had still yet to cease. The sky even now was hidden far behind a thick sodden blanket of clouds. Eryndes’s heavy oilskin held off most of the torrent except for around her boots, hands and face, but it mattered little as her return journey to the manor would only take a ten minute gallop.

Reaching the main road she urged Banjo, her aging gelding, into an easy gallop along the already muddy road.

Summer rain was not unheard of in the north but was always very inconvenient. For although the air was slick with moisture, the temperature had not receded as maybe expected.

Even this early in the morning, Eryndes was hot and looked longingly at the horizon for any sign of reprieve. There was little hope for the return of the sun for a while at least, as the clouds had set themselves to remain with the promise continued heavy rain for the rest of the day.

The rain was not only personal discomfort but a hindrance to the festival, the running of the manor and the harvesting of the summer crops. Keeping Banjo at a solid gallop, Eryndes knew this day would be a long one.

Finally Banjo turned off the main north road and down the well used road towards the manor without waiting for direction. The road to the manor was not short in length, stretching out over half a league before reaching the gate. The road was made ominous looking with the thick mesh of trees, thickets and brush on either side, then cut away a dozen metres before the ancient stone wall and carven stone gates.

Carthal was built to endure. The last great fortress of the north.

Banjo took them at an easy pace under the wall, Eryndes and the guards standing at post exchanging nods of greetings.

It was to be indeed a long day. Upon returning and leaving her horse at the smaller of the two stables at the main entrance, the one _not_ reserved for the warhorses, Eryndes climbed up the steps to the main door and found herself cornered; just inside the main doors stood a congregation of most of the heads of Carthal Manor. Seven of the ten masters and mistresses stood together, animated in discussion, each one turning to Eryndes as soon as she stepped through the door.

“Morning, Eryndes. You’re just in time,” Master of arms and craftsman, Camaenor nodded to the group.

“Good morning,” Warily, Eryndes joined them, pulling her oilskin off her sweaty shoulders, “I understood our meeting was to be during breakfast?”

“Breakfast will have to wait,” the Hunting Master, Faron, told her gravely. “The top fields have flooded.”

“The south road, near the orchard and fifth grain shed has turned to sludge,” Camaenor put in, then pointed above them, “and the roof is leaking in a half dozen places.”

“Not to mention the grain and fruits still to be saved before it rots,” Amben, Master of Crops, shook his head. “We need to be extremely industrious today or much will be lost.”

Sali, the eldest of the Dúnedain and Mistress of the Kitchen, laughed, “The Masters have lost their minds in favour of fretting, my dear,” the old wrinkled eyes glanced over her companions with obvious scorn.

“You cannot deny there is much to do and it cannot be counted on Úrion forgoing any of the patrols or guards to aid us,” Faron shot at Sali.

The Master of Livestock, Geledir, a more calm and reasonable man, held up his hand, “Let us not get bogged down here. We must work together to save what we can.” He looked to the elderly women to his side that had yet to speak, “Surely the sheets can go unwashed today and draft extra hands to catch up once the sun shines again?”

Mydedis, Mistress of Housekeeping, gave a single nod, “Yes, however its dirty sheets, clothing, bodies and floors for all if I don’t get the extra help afterwards.”

Lobordir, who had been half listening and half speaking to his rangers moving off to report for his early morning patrol, turned back to the masters with a loud sigh, “Look, just save the food and the rest will come to sort itself. Take what rangers you need who aren’t on duty and get it done.” Lobordir was a good man, but found the running of the manor a bit tedious. He was not only Master of Stables but also third in command of the Carthal Dúnedain. He had patrols to run, guards to post, and warhorses to see too, and cared very little if sheets weren’t washed.

“Which is priority?” Amben protested, unsatisfied, “The hay needs to be collected and racked for drying; the grains need to be cut and also racked. Then there’s the fruit that will rot, drains to dig, and the roof needs fixing. And the sheep field is becoming sludge and they’ll need to be moved to higher ground or it will be footrot-“

Lobordir held up both hands to stop the tirade, “Amben.”

Amben stopped but set his jaw, unhappy being told to be silent.

Lobordir rubbed the unshaven stubble on his chin impatiently, “Amben, I do understand. All of it needs to be done and done quickly.”

“And we need not be wasting our time here talking,” Sali pipped up.

Lobordir continued without acknowledging Sali’s remark, “Now, as I said. Take anyone you need who is not required for duty. After yesterday’s skirmish with Strider’s patrol you cannot expect us to relax our guard, not even for a day. So Camaenor? Get your people working on the roof and then to the top fields once that’s done. Sali and Mydedis? Your people will see to the fruit and vegetables. Geledir? Move the sheep, I don’t care where. Move them then assist Faron and Amben with the grain and hay.”

Lobordir took a breath, “Are well all in agreement?”

While six of the other heads nodded in reluctant agreement, Eryndes pursed her lips, “Joust?”

Lobordir, also known as Joust, looked to her, “Problem?”

“What of meals?”

“Break into the stores. Don’t waste time cooking.”

Satisfied, Lobordir nodded to them politely before heading out into the pelting rain, obvious eager to commence his own increased duties for the day.

Geledir smiled at the group, “Well, better get to it. I look forward to pickled onions for breakfast and picked tongue for lunch!” With a laugh of good nature he playfully nudged Sali before he and Amben also left them to go find their people.

The two younger men did not look as pleased but also left, Camaenor leaving a parting comment, “Let the nightmare begin.”

“Camaenor’s never been a light-hearted fellow,” Sali sniggered at her side, “It was never a wonder to _me_ why you never married him.”

Eryndes let out a noisy breath, “I fear this day will leave us all in dwindling spirits.”

“Come, ladies. There is much to do. And it’ll be the women to blame when the food isn’t served on time and the chooks and children go hungry,” Mydedis gestured them in the general direction of the kitchen.

“Chooks or children, to which are you referring are the men?”

Eryndes chuckled at Sali as they turned down the south wing of the manor, the great hall it was named, “I thought you adored _all_ men?”

“I have recently refined my tastes,” Sali winked at her then flicked her eyes and tossed her head towards a circle of three figures standing together absorbed in conversation over by the eastern door. Despite the earlier than normal wakeup call because of the weather, each of them looked just as well as they always did.

Mydedis smiled and regarded the three figures, “Which one has refined your tastes this time?”

Sali’s face turned almost evil, “Why not all three? Quite the variety, don’t you agree? The chief, the brawn, and the forever-fair.”

Though Eryndes fought to suppress it, a big smile graced her lips and let out a laugh, “Does Úrion know you call him _the brawn_?”

Sali shrugged as they entered the kitchen through the large doors at the end of the hall, “He knows I’ve seen him naked.”

“Sali,” Eryndes whispered, her face reddening, “I am not certain I want to know that.”

“Peace, dear,” Mydedis laughed with a twinkle in her old eyes, “She of course means she saw him when he was a babe.”

Once through the door they were greeted by the many women who permanently worked in the kitchen, already hard at their duties. One of them was a young and pregnant ranger named Mereniel heard the last part of their conversation, “Who around here haven’t you see naked as a babe?”

Sali didn’t miss a beat and answered with a purr, “The elf. Much to my severe lament but I live in hope. An old lady can only imagine what lies under that fine tunic-”

“Perhaps we should not be so descriptive,” Mereniel cut in and capturing Eryndes’s eye with an odd mixture of tease and caution, “One of us has not had the privilege.”

“Have I not?” she protested, her face still hot, “I can count many times I have seen-“

“Patients under your care do not count,” Sali waved her hand in dismissal, “My apologies, Eryndes, sometimes I forget about you. We should hurry with the task at hand and speak no more to save the innocence of your ears and keep your imagination pure.”

Eryndes had always resented the implication that her unwed, virginal state disqualified her from participating in the guilty pleasure of a completely inappropriate and feminine conversation; those conversations which usually occur when a group of women congregate in private, far away from the ears of their male companions.

It especially irked her when she was far _older_ than women like Mereniel and some of the other married women. It was not fair old maids should not be allowed to join in with the more interesting and enjoyable conversations simply because they lacked a husband. Surely it was the right of every woman.

Focusing on her task of carving the cured leg, she muttered under her breath, “Perhaps my imagination is not as pure as you might think.”

“Sorry, what was that dear?” she heard Mydedis asked kindly.

“Nothing,” she answered without looking up, “Nothing at all.”

 .

0000

.

Half an hour later and breakfast was ready to go out. Though Lobordir had directed them not to waste time on cooking, the women had already begun the porridge and so that went out along with the sliced ham, yesterday’s bread, mutton dripping, and cheese.

Despite Geledir’s jest about the pickled onions, there was not one to be seen.

Breakfast that day ended up a quiet affair as only half of the Dúnedain sat at the tables. The other half having been sent out early on tasks or to duty. Still, the remaining food would be left out to wait for those who would return during the course of the morning.

Those on patrol or guard, however, would not return to the manor until the sun stood directly overhead and return no doubt famished.

Eryndes thought of Aragorn and hoped he thought to take a ration sack for him and his rangers. The dangers of the north were bad enough, but given the difficulties brought on with the rain, she hated to think his attention would be dimmed by an empty stomach.

“You went to see Naniel?” a grating cavernous voice demanded from above her.

Eryndes looked up in surprise to see Nestdôl, the Healing Master, bearing down at her. He was as wrinkled as he was bitter, but this particular scowl on his face was reserved for only the privileged few at Carthal. Eryndes was one of them. “Nanmes came early this morning in a fright. She had convinced herself Naniel had plague.”

“And you had to go out there to check for yourself?” the old man of over three times her age challenged hotly.

Eryndes breathed in to try and keep calm but alas it didn’t work. It rarely did. “I did not know you had already seen the girl. Nanmes made no mention of it until I arrived at her farm.”

Nestdôl however was not one to accept excuses, especially from her, “I am the Healing Master here. I won’t have you second guessing me.”

“I did not,” she tried to counter calmly, “I simply gave her some medicine to ease the symptoms-”

“A cold does not need your potions! Life is tough and your ministrations only weaken the will.”

Eryndes eyes widened in anger, “Naniel is eight years old!”

“Goodness, you will have all the young ones blowing their noses to get out of duty,” Nestdôl levelled his finger at her, “I forbid you to waste any more medicine on frivolities.”

“Frivolities?” she repeated in disbelief, wanting nothing more than to shove his finger out of her face. “We are healers. I refuse to sit back and watch children suffer needlessly-“

“My decision is final,” his eyes narrowed at her, “and you will do as you’re told, Hên gollor dhûr! (black-witch daughter).”

Distress and hurt leapt so suddenly to her chest, the words and the wit to respond utterly failed her and could only watch in stunned silence as Nestdôl gave her one more look of distain then walked away.

“Eryndes?” Gueniel came to her side, “Are you alright? Shall I give him a piece of my mind?”

Quickly, Eryndes reached over and grasped her friends hand and stopped her, “No, please.”

“Why? He is a horrid beast!”

Eryndes swallowed against the lump in her throat and forced her face into an expression of peace, “His pride was injured. He thought I was reassessing his diagnosis and was not going to leave without taking my own pride down a notch; justified or not.”

“But to call you-“

“I believe that was precisely his intent.”

“Are you going to heed his order?”

Eryndes squeezed her friend’s hand then collected her plate, “Of course not. Nestdôl would not expect me to either. He knows I would never withhold medicine, regardless of his wishes.”

Gueniel followed suit and they both took their leave from the hall through the bi-directional doors to the kitchen, “Your mother would never have us withhold medicine from sick children.”

Giving both their plates to the scullery, Eryndes went to make tea for them, “Nestdôl has his reasons. He has seen what happens to folk during a plague outbreak.” She sighed, trying her hardest to come to sincerely appreciate Nestdôl opinion. It was easier to speak the words of capitulation and unity than to actually believe them, especially when it came to a cantankerous old man like Nestdôl. “He has seen what happens when the medicine runs out.”

Gueniel eyed her, accepting a mug of steaming tea, “You could not try to force yourself to like that man any more if all our lives depended on it.”

“My duty, dearest, is not to like him. My duty is to respect him.” But she then made a face, “But withholding simple herbs from an eight year old is not a strength I possess and no amount of respect could ever convince me otherwise.”

“No indeed not,” Gueniel agreed, sipping her tea quickly, “Beast of a man.”

Eryndes laughed lightly, sipping her own tea as urgently as Gueniel, “My brother has called him far worse in the past.” She changed the subject, “Are you labouring in the orchards with the rest of us today?”

“Alas, no,” Gueniel took another sip, also trying to drown all her tea in haste, “Amdiel’s child is not patient and seems to insistent today is the day. She made it through the night but I think I’ll be birthing all morning.”

Eryndes smiled. The birth of a child was always cause for her to be jolly, despite the very public dressing down from Nestdôl. “Does she guess the sex?”

Gueniel finished her tea, “She believes it a girl.”

“Remind her not to be picky,” she grinned, “Any child is a blessing. You _will_ call me if you need help?”

“And save you from the orchard? I would but Cravril is already assisting me with her. I could ask her to trade places with you?”

Eryndes finished her tea and waved her suggestion away, “Nay. No need. I will see the babe tonight.”

“There are many hours of hard work for all before then.”

“Deliver well and I will ask for an extra barrel of ale to be opened in celebration,” she winked.

Gueniel chuckled, “Your mother used to have wine and brandy for celebrating a successful birth.”

“Times are tough. Be grateful we have our own brewery.” Eryndes smiled at her friend ascend up the stairs to the second level then made her way outside into the pouring rain. This time she forwent the heavy oilskin and conceded she would just have to get soaked. All those called out to work in the fields today would have to forgo their heavy and restricting oilskins, if any substantial work was to be done.

Of the approximate five hundred Dúnedain living in the community, only two hundred lived at the manor permanently. However during the weeklong festival, many of the unwed men slept in tents outside or on mattresses in the great hall.

Eryndes passed many of the tents, made miserable by the rain and muddy sludge the ground had turned too. She was very glad to have her own room in the manor.

Many of the women of the household were also making their way to the orchards and Eryndes smiled to them in greeting as they all walked together. Of the five hundred, there were about one hundred Dúnedain who were not considered active rangers, living at the manor or out amongst the some fifty farms spread out to the west. The hundred included the elderly, children, physically incapable and those very few who had no skill or stomach for battle. Eryndes was one of the latter, having no skill or aptitude for fighting, much like her mother had been. Her duty fell to helping with the running of the manor, the fixing of herbs and medicines, and healing the sick and wounded.

All those who lived in the manor but did not contribute to the safety of the Dúnedain by holding a sword did their duty in other areas. The elderly men helped with the caring for crops and livestock, and the women with the household running of the manor. Even the young children bore duty; whether mucking out stables or feeding chooks, everyone had to do their share.

Though on days like today, everyone was called to extra duty. Looking around them, the sheep had been moved to the southernmost paddock to the higher ground there. Many of the rangers due to go on patrol or guard duty that afternoon were out there, or in the animal stalls behind the main stables feeding out hay and maize. Many would then move to help Faron and Amben’s people rescue the hay and grain from the flooding northern fields.

“Mydedis?” Eryndes frowned, “Do you know if anyone has seen to the flooding vegetable field?”

Mydedis followed her gaze to the left of the road as they walked along towards the orchard, “I haven’t heard.”

“The water is trapped and the plants are swimming.”

“Perhaps we should have someone dig a draining trench?” The Mistress of the Housekeeping looked about them then went about ordering two of their company to do just that.

Ahead of them, Laeron, one of the youngest of the rangers was leading a horse and cart into the orchard. He smiled at the group of two dozen women, “I’m about to go on patrol but I thought I’d bring you ladies a cart before they’re all taken.” Laeron was the youngest son of Úrion, who just like his father was a smooth talking man of the women-folk.

He couldn’t resist giving the women a bow and a wink before leaving them with the horse and cart.

Mereniel laughed, taking the reins and urged the horse further into the sludge, “Glúdhwen’s going to have her hands full with that boy.”

Sali picked up her skirts and carefully waded her way through the deep mud with a spry mostly absent in women thirty years her junior, “Come on then, the fruit won’t pick itself.”

Eryndes and three of the younger women went behind the cart and helped to push the cart forward. Abruptly, it stuck something hard. The horse and women strained, but it refused to budge. Eryndes felt the mud around her touch her knees and she grumbled, “Laeron may have brought us the cart, but he could have stayed long enough to get it through the mud.”

Cordoves beside her strained hard, her trousers also sunk down to her knees. The ranger was much stronger than many of the other women yet her efforts were unable to move the cart any further, “I think it’s stuck on a rock.” She knelt down deep into the mud and unflinchingly dug her arm down in deep, feeling her way along the cart’s wheel. “Oh, dear.” Cordoves looked up to them, “It’s hit a rock and snapped the wheel.”

“If we cannot get it out then it doesn’t matter about there being any other carts to spare; we’d never get it in passed this one,” someone commented from behind Eryndes.

“Get up!” Mereniel urged the horse, “Come on, fella. Get up!”

The horse strained hard, the muscles in his powerful legs and hindquarters flexing and the cart shook but did not budge.

“Stop,” Sali called, “Ease him. It’s not use. It’ll have to be dug out.”

“That’ll take awhile.”

“And we’ve still got a whole days worth of butchering to get on with.”

“Not to mention our normal duties.”

“Or the flooding vegetable gardens.”

“Ladies!” Sali called out. “Leave the cart. Cordoves? You, Eryndes, and Mereniel go return the horse and come back with as many pales you can find. The rest of us will pick.”

“You want to lug the whole orchard with _pales_?”

“Cordoves, would you rather dig out the cart?”

Cordoves rolled her eyes in spite and said under her breath, “I’d rather be on patrol instead of playing farm hand.”

Mereniel got the horse free and waved the other two ahead of her as she lead the horse back through the thick deep mud, “Well, come on. No use bleating about it now.”

.

0000

 .

So that is how the women of the kitchen and housekeeping spent their morning; picking and carting fruit back to the manor. It was slow, hard work, and continued to drag on for seemingly endless hours. By eleven thirty, only half the orchard of plums and apricots had been picked and carted by hand to the storeroom in the manor.

Some of the patrols had already returned when the women made their last trudge back to the manor, where they would stop to put on lunch for everyone. As they had passed by the carpenter’s workshop and the blacksmith, a couple of the rangers spotted them.

“I thank you but I can manage,” Eryndes tried to tell the young ranger, who was adamant beyond reason to help her and no other, “perhaps you might offer your help to another who would welcome your assistance?”

The young ranger, Glavrol, glanced over at Erchel, the middle aged ex-ranger hefting a single pale with her single remaining arm. “Ravonor, won’t you take Erchel’s and I will help Eryndes.”

Stifling a retort with a set jaw, Eryndes had both her pales taken from her and Glavrol walked off ahead towards the food preparation tables with a great big smile.

Some of the women sniggered from behind her. It was quite the hilarity for them, watching the young rangers trip over themselves and each other to aid the few unwed women of the manor.

Eryndes did not see the funny side of it however, “Ravonor, surely you can take another? You have two hands. And if your group have nothing better to do, the rest of the fruit is currently set to rot in the orchard.”

Ravonor looked deflated, “Of course.” He took another pail full of plums from one of the other women and quickly went off in the same direction of Glavrol. She did not know if he would rally any others to help and she did not care. At the very least, her tone had stopped the sniggering behind her.

Eryndes took one of the pails from one of the other women, Foruyndes, and shot an angry glare at her companions, “bite your tongues.”

Cordoves rolled her eyes, “Ravonor was just following Glavrol. Perhaps you should save your anger for him.”

“If he were to stand still long enough, I would.”

Their group had not matched ten metres on with the fruit when Glavrol returned, closely followed by Ravonor, still smirking and looking to match once again straight to Eryndes.

The attention of the young men was no reflection upon her in particular, only attesting to state of things at Carthal Manor. Every year, girls who came of age were married or sent to other Dúnedain communities to spread out bloodlines, that way the number of unwed women remaining at Carthal was usually down to the half dozen.

Eryndes was twice the age if not more than those two boys, yet to them she was a prize to fight over. Any unwed woman was a target for showy admiration and attention, whether they sought it or not. Most of the attention was more a game of one-upmanship, trying to appear charming to women in front of his peers.

“Here they come again. Perhaps we should go hunt orcs and send Eryndes’s admirers to work the fields,” laughed Mereniel, who was always finding the humour in almost any situation.

Many of the women laughed along with her.

“Glavrol! Ravonor!”

They all turned to see Strider and his patrol on horseback, walking along the road from behind Eryndes and her group of labouring women. Both men stopped immediately, their faces full of the guilt from being caught.

“Are you both not due to report to Úrion? Do you not have duty?”

Both of the young rangers inclined their heads and quickly retreated back in the direction of the main stables.

“Time for fraternising with my young rangers is reserved for after duty, sister,” Aragorn teased her, grinning down at her from a top of his horse.

“How fortunate then, brother, that my duty is never done,” she counted sullenly, taking another pail from one of the older women and they continued lugging their heavy loads towards the manor.

Along the road Aragorn and his men rode around them, and Eryndes heard a horse come up beside her, “Why no cart?”

She sighed and looked up at him, “We had one but its wheel dug too deeply into the mud this morning and broke on a rock. All others were sequestered to swiftly get the hay and grain from the top fields.” She would have shrugged but for the heavy buckets weighing down her shoulders. “This rain is has the most unfortunate timing.”

“I will have some from this morning’s patrol bring in the rest. Your group looks done in.”

Nodding, she looked down the muddy road and around the sodden grounds of Carthal, “thank you. Our schedule is far behind today. I am afraid lunch will be delayed regardless.”

“You better change before tackling lunch; you look like I just fished you out of the river.”

“After you took a bath in the pig wallow?” Eryndes returned to him tauntingly.

Aragorn chuckled, looking down at his sorry state, mud plastered down his clothes and horse, “Yes, I believe we are all in a need of washing.” He looked up to behind her, “Except for Sindar.”

“Aglarebon knows how to run _around_ pig wallows,” she heard the elf say. Swallowing, she chanced a glance behind her. He was soaked through from the rain as much as they all were, but as Aragorn had said, there was but a few small flecks of mud sullying his fine clothes or even finer face and hair. Face blank, his piercing eyes staring directly at her without warmth of recognition. Eryndes bitterly bit at her lip, her breath freezing in her lungs and did not offer a comment.

His horse, Aglarebon, however was keenly aware of her, or more precisely the contents of the buckets she was hauling. His long white neck strained hard to reach out and smell the fruit piled high in the bucket in her right hand.

“I fear I will be just as in need of a clean after digging the cart out of the bog,” she muttered to Aragorn finally, jerking the bucket away from the horse; the stones in the plums being dangerous to horses.

In one quick smooth move, Sindar corrected his horse without uttering a sound. The horse stopped for a moment but the temptation was just too great and decided to risk his master’s wrath and try again.

“Aglarebon, posto han sí (Aglarebon, stop that now),” Sindar growled under his breath, almost too quiet for her to hear and the horse instantly pulled his head back and held down low in disgrace.

Eryndes would have found it almost charming and chuckled at the horse’s sulky behaviour if not for Sindar’s cold regard. Were it possible, she would have considered him not the same elf who rode past her cottage. Perhaps she had instead met his twin?

“Sindar?” Aragorn grinned, “please will you have Lobordir bring his patrol out to help bring in the rest of the fruit and also would you commence the debrief in my stead? I will join you shortly.” Aragorn slid down from the saddle to join her on the ground, and smiled warmly at her, “I have a cart to dig out.”

Eryndes returned his smile, “Thank you.”

“What brother would I be if I allowed my own sister to dig a cart out of the mud? And as you say, I am already filthy,” he grinned wryly at her. “Sindar?”

Eryndes looked back at the elf, who still sat on his horse with an eyebrow raised, “If you insist.”

“Thank you. And have one of Lobordir’s men come help me with the cart.” He gave the reins to Sindar, who without further word led the patrol forward towards the main stables.

Aragorn and Eryndes left the rest of the women and headed back down the road.

“He does not speak much,” Eryndes commented quietly.

“That is an opinion you do not own if you have yet to speak to him.”

Blinking in surprise, she looked up at him, “I have spoken to him. At the feast-”

“Amongst hundreds of strangers? Not even strangers of his own kind and in an overcrowded hall?” He gave her a stern look, “Do not be so quick to judge others, Eryndes.”

Her eyes fell to the road. As much as she dearly loved her ‘brother’, he had the power to strike her to nothing more than a mere child. “I meant no offense.”

“I would have expected you to already have extended a hand to him in friendship. Regardless, I have something else to discuss with you.”

“You do?” she asked surprised.

“You heard about yesterday’s patrol?”

“I heard there was a skirmish,” she nodded warily.

“An orc we captured spoke of his master seeking the heir.”

She almost stopped walking, “Why? Why now?”

“And his master believes here is where he will find me.”

“Here! At Carthal?” she exclaimed, fear at once taking over her.

“That is what he said.”

Eryndes breathed in deeply, “Maybe you should consider remaining within the wall. Surely no orc spy can hope to see passed stone and our guard-towers.”

“I cannot. You know that.” He stopped then spoke with caution, “My reason for telling you is because there is a possibility we have a conspirator for the enemy amongst us.”

For a moment Eryndes stared at him, not truly believing Aragorn would suggest a thing. “I do not believe it.” She shook her head, “I refuse to believe any amongst us would betray you.”

“Regardless of what you think, I want you to be vigilant. If you see anything suspicious-“

“You want me to spy on our own people?” she cut over him.

“No,” he said patiently. “I just want you to keep your eyes open for anything out of the ordinary.” He paused, “And to be careful. Just - remain close to the manor.”

“You want me to remain hidden, but will not take the same precaution for yourself?” Before he could answer, she continued, “If they don’t know who the heir is, then there is no danger for either of us.”

“Eryndes,” he stared down at her with his ever so patient eyes.

“Then you did not wish to discuss this with me at all. I am simply to listen and be silent?”

“It is my decision. I want you to remain here unless accompanied by a ranger,” he stated firmly.

She opened her mouth to argue, say something, anything to change his mind. “Aragorn-“

He shook his head, and at once she knew he would not be swayed. “You should return inside and change before you become ill. I will attend the cart.”

Swallowing her frustration, she bowed her head. “As you wish,” then added with a touch of bitterness, “my lord.”

“Eryndes,” he called after her as she walked away but her mood was lost and knew any words she could offer would be harsh and disrespectful. Instead she continued without pause back to the manor, her feet kicking at as many stones as she could along the way.

 .

0000

 .

The rain left the majority of the manor workers, those not fully occupied by ranger duties, scattered everywhere labouring not at their usual posts.

Any unharvested grain left in the paddocks took most of the strongest arms and backs to the wheat and barley fields. The rest of those not on guard or patrol duties worked where needed. As promised, Aragorn had one of the patrol groups who had returned early bring in the any of the fruit left on the trees.

The washing house was silent, no hands could be spared to wash cloth this day, however next door the bathing house, for those who did not have a bath in their room, and those whom did not have a room at all, was predicted to be popular until far into the night.

Lunchtime was a horrid affair.

The much delayed midday meal was hastily thrown together with no cooked or reheated meats, no cooked vegetables, and no cut fruit. Loaves of yesterday’s bread piled high on tables at the kitchen end of the great hall with hot gravy and dripping, along with whole hocks of cured meats and wheels of cheese. Jars upon jars of preserved vegetables and fruits were splayed on the table, ready to be opened as a supplement to the dismal offerings to the rangers returning from duty.

The hall was just as unsightly as the food, at least in Eryndes’s eyes. The day was hot and sticky, made hotter and stickier in the hall by hundreds of sweaty, muddy, and soaked to the bone men and women crowding around the long tables waiting to gather their food. The floor was slick with mud and water, adding laughter to the gathering as many slipped and slid their way from the serving tables back to their seats to eat.

The air in the hall was almost unbreathable.

A dozen of the usual kitchen staff busied themselves carving meat and breaking into the cheeses, breads and ladling out preserved gherkin, cabbage, kale, carrot, pea, onion, and a few slices of preserved apricot and plum.

It was enough to feed their bellies but hardly the fare expected during the height of harvest, when the stores were being overloaded with the bounties of a fruitful year.

The complaints made were only in jest and the faces of the rangers were all smiles, even in their soaking, dirty, miserable states.

Taking a long breath, Eryndes pushed through the kitchen doors and back into the overcrowded and overheated hall.

The plates in her hands were heavy, the air was so thick, and was weary. She was trying to readjust her hands to get a better grip on the plates when suddenly the floor underneath her became like ice on stone and she slipped on the mud.

With a yelp she felt herself falling backwards, only to land a lot sooner than expected and on something solid but somewhat softer then the floor.

“Careful,” a deep voice admonished from behind her, “less you end up a heap on the floor.”

Swallowing hard, Eryndes righted herself, standing up straight once more and drawing away from the hands on her back that had stopped her from falling. She braved a look at him, finding his eyes were just as intense and piercing as they had been an hour before, his face almost devoid of any emotion besides what she thought was a hint of scorn, “Yes, of course. Thank you.”

Sindar turned and walked away from her without reply, his feet as sure on the floor as if his boots bore spikes on the soles, and Eryndes set her jaw. He may have saved her from falling, yes, but that did not make his actions favourable to her.

Damn him and his lightness of foot.

Gripping her plates even tighter, she carefully stepped along the muddy floor around the serving table, determined not to slip again. It was not easy but in the end she didn’t and made the table without further incident. Setting the plates down, she stepped around to her position and continued ladling food and handing the filled plates out to the waiting crowd.

She sighed wearily. It took a long time to serve over four hundred mouths, even with the eleven other women serving beside her. Eventually they would stop and finally have a moment free to eat their share.

 .

Finally lunch concluded allowing the kitchen women to take a few minutes to rest at one of the tables and take their long awaited fill. The air in the hall had freshened after so many of the hot, sweaty and wet folk left the great hall and gone about their duties.

The floor was a disaster. The rain had not let up either, which meant by dinnertime, the mud would again turn to sludge.

Eryndes looked at it with distain, “Perhaps we should have told them to remove their boots.”

“Indeed?” Gueniel sniggered at her, taking a well earned break after the successful delivery of a little boy two hours before lunch. “A little late now.”

“Never mind,” Advirien, one of the elder ladies from the kitchen told her, “I will have the children shovel out most of the mud and bring in some old straw.”

“We’ll need more than straw to begin butchering in here.”

Eryndes looked out the nearest window at the pelting rain; it was almost fitting with how her mood had been of late. For the most part, Aragorn’s over-protectiveness did no longer anger her as it had done earlier and was certain very soon he would lift his prohibition once he realised it was unnecessary.

If it were true Angmar knew of the heir being amongst those at Carthal, there was no danger for her. At least no more so than anyone else. For Angmar did not seem to know the identity of the heir, and none outside Carthal knew Aragorn had a sworn sister.

“The old linen?” Eryndes tiredly suggested. “In the second level housekeepers cubby?”

“And get it all bloodied?”

“It is already thread bare in some places and once we’re done it can be boiled then torn for wound dressing.”

Sali looked at Mydedis who nodded approvingly, “Very well.”

After scattering straw over the tables, they threw over old cloth before bringing out the sides of deer, beef, and pig, and getting to work.

The afternoon dragged on and between songs, Mydedis looked up and stared just passed Eryndes, “Dear me, Sindar, you look half drowned,” Mydedis smiled warmly at the elf, “Maybe you should like to go dry off?”

Eryndes’ eyes shot up and turned to see Sindar standing just behind her, his attention directed to Mydedis.

“Archery lessons do not cancel because of bad weather,” Sindar told her wryly, glimpsing down at his wet clothes, “but it does not bother me.” He then hesitated, “Though the rain has set back your progress?”

“Oh yes, we’ve only half a day to do a whole days work. But the harvest had to be saved, along with the sheep and the vegetables and fruit and-.” Mydedis smiled, “I won’t bore you with the details.”

Sindar paused again and for longer this time, his eyes intently watching Mydedis’ knife as she worked, “I am not sure what I am able to offer, but I would help if I could.”

Most of the women at the table stopped abruptly, their task forgotten instantly, all looking to the elf in disbelief.

“You wish to help us?” asked Sali.

Sindar’s already guarded expression deepened, but his jaw was set, “If there was something I was capable?”

Mydedis smiled, “Of course! We always have room for another willing set of hands.” She handed him a spare knife, “Have at it, Sindar.”

Sindar took the knife with a foreboding look to his eyes.

“You haven’t carved a beast before?”

“I can skin, gut and throw onto a fire any beast. However, butchering? Only once,” he admitted, “and was petitioned never to try again.”

The women laughed. Eryndes held back her own smile. It annoyed her how friendly he seemed to them.

“It’s easy,” Mydedis encouraged, “Grab the bone like this, and run the blade through here, and then like this.” Mydedis watched him take the forequarter and did as she instructed, “Yes that’s right.”

“You’re a natural talent, Sindar,” one of the other ladies commented evenly.

“I am proficient with blades,” Sindar agreed, nonchalant as ever.

“And carving through _living_ flesh.”

She hadn’t meant for him to hear her, but he did. The silver in his eyes flicked to her and she knew his superior elven ears had heard her.

At least he did her the favour of not answering.

“Now, you have to sever the tendon through here, then slide the knife to take it off,” Mydedis continued her lesson, “then through this side, use the blade at this angle, do you see? That will cut around the shoulder blade-”

Sindar was a quick student and in a couple minutes the women had him carving without much supervision, only the occasional directive where needed.

Eryndes did note however, that when they took up another song Sindar remained silent.

When the embers of dusk’s falling sun began to fill the sky and filtering into the hall, the women called a halt to their butchering for the day. Even with Sindar’s remarkable knife skills and quick hands, there was no way they could’ve caught up for the time lost that morning.

Tomorrow was set to be an equally long day. The women thanked Sindar appreciatively for his help, and while doing so, also firmly inviting him back tomorrow. If he wished.

He simply inclined his head and left.

 

The tables were laden with the evening meal, breads, cheeses, meat from the roasting pit, potatoes, and even some pumpkins and turnips. Men, women, and children ate heartedly. The hall was alive with their animated conversations, jokes, and general merriment.

Outside, the rain continued to fall.

As promised, many drank deeply into the ale stores, opened freely in celebration of the birth of a new life. Mother and child were strong, and the Dúnedain had another son to continue their ancient Númenórean line.

Eryndes walked along the window side aisle passed all the Dúnedain, some of them nodding to her, some even waving her to come sit with them.

Usually she liked to sit to share a meal Gueniel, her childhood friend and confidant, also Carthal’s head midwife, but currently she was called away to yet another pregnant woman out on one of the farms still occupied during the festival.

Regardless though, after their few terse words that morning, Eryndes was keen to seek out Aragorn make amends with her brother. They seemed to never have the time for talk anymore. It had been years since Aragorn had even been in Carthal.

And it was not certain how long he would stay _this_ time.

She spotted him, sitting up the back of the hall at his usual table; the last table before the great window and the door to the kitchen.

Aragorn was as real a brother to her as if he’d been brought into the world by the same mother. Ever since she was born, she had known him to be a long time close friend to her family. Eryndes grew up learning to ride with him, tagging along with her father, brother, and Aragorn when they went south for trade. She’d learnt the history of their people, learnt about Middle Earth, his teachings in the language of the Sindar, and singing together watching the moon wander its way across the night sky.

The deaths of all her family in a few short years had cut her youthful years short and cast her to be alone and unprotected, or even moreso, forced into marriage.

However upon the day Eryndes’ mother died, Aragorn stepped forth in surprise to many and named her sister. In that moment he became her family and protector.

She smiled seeing him just ahead. He was speaking happily and smiling to someone opposite him.

Quickly, dread filled her heart. Keeping her head down, she quickened her pace.

Surely if they saw her they would assume her busy and on her way to the kitchen?

“Eryndes?”

She stopped dead, closing her eyes in regret. Opening her eyes, she face Aragorn with a big smile befitting a brother and asked in her best polite tone, “Yes, can I get you something?”

Aragorn gave her a patient look, “Have you eaten yet? Come, join us.” He held out his pipe and gestured to the empty seat beside him.

Keeping her smile with practiced ease, she respectfully refused, “Thank you but there is much to be done.”

“Have you not done enough already today?” He swept his hand to his companion, “Sindar told me you were up long before dawn.”

She could no longer avoid looking at him without being rude. Turning to face them both, she could see his keen silver eyes watching her. “Indeed, I was. Nanmes was concerned about Naniel this morning. I was barely awake enough to realise the time,” she told Aragorn, turning back to him, not mentioning how his recent curfew had forced her arranger for another healer to visit Naniel in the morning. “Which is why once I finish up my duties, I will retire early.”

Aragorn let out a noisy breath in exasperation, “You work too hard, Eryndes. Why not sit with us for a few minutes? Let someone else finish up.”

Giving him an affectionate pat on his shoulder, she shook her head, “I am sorry, but I cannot. Duty is duty.” Politely, she looked at Sindar then back to Aragorn, “Good night.”

Without waiting for a reply Eryndes walked away, keeping her walk casual until she reached the kitchen and the closed of the kitchen door behind her.

In the kitchen she free from her necessary civility and scowled in what she knew was petty jealousy. Knowing it didn’t dissolve it. Her brother had so little time and so much of it was recently taken up by another.

At least alone in the kitchen offered her freedom from the eyes of so many and their expectations of her and tiredly she rubbed her face and scowled again, “Odious elf!”

She sighed and moved away from the door. She hadn’t lied when she said there was still much work to be done.

Duty and manners, this was her life.

 .

0000

 .

“I do hope you are not avoiding me.”

The night did not get any simpler for Eryndes, for as she made her way as discretely as she could from the kitchen to the stairway which lead up to the second level and her quarters, when she heard a deep masculine voice.

“Of course not,” she countered.

Stepping back from the first step of the stairs, she faced him. He had apparently been waiting for her to vacate the kitchen and cut her off in the hallway as she had made for the stairs to the upper levels of the manor and to the solitude of her quarters.

Eryndes rubbed her eyes, “Forgive me, brother. It has been a long day.” Even though she’d wished to talk with him earlier, her mood was now as sour as it was tired.

“A long time has passed since we have spoken at length,” Aragorn pointed out. “And we seem to be making a habit of being at odds.”

“I am sorry for that,” she answered quickly, too quickly.

Aragorn’s eyes narrowed, “I am concerned for you. You do nothing but work.”

Eryndes waved a dismissal, “This is the busiest time of year, as it always has been.” Then she added quietly, “and now with nothing to do but remain here and attend my duties.”

Aragorn’s stern regard did not change, “I am simply looking out for your protection. You will not even carry a weapon-”

“Because someone will expect I know how to use one,” she argued.

“It is only temporary, until we have a greater understanding of the enemies plan,” Aragorn soothed.

Eryndes wanted to argue but knew it was pointless, “Very well.”

Aragorn stepped forward, “Have you been avoiding me?”

“No- I- we’ve been very busy.”

Yes, but we have always managed to find time to speak.”

“You do mean in the years that you are _here_?” she bit out.

“Eryndes-“

She looked down and breathed in deeply, “I am sorry.”

The weight of his hand came onto her shoulder and he held her firmly, “Look at me.”

She did as she was told and forced her eyes up to meet his.

“My attentions have always been split between here and with the rangers to the south. That is nothing new. So tell me, what is truly bothering you?”

Swallowing, she looked away from him. Her eyes were heavy, her body was weary, and for the life of her, she did not want to say anything she would regret in the new day. “Every year passes here without change,” she sighed regretfully. “The only thing I can look forward to is when you are with us.” She hesitated, “This year you have even less time.”

Aragorn smiled at her, “Sindar has been my friend since well before you were born. He as good my brother as you are my sister.” His hand gave her shoulder a squeeze. “As I have already said, I would like to count on you to befriend him.”

Eryndes’s stood firm. How did he expect her to achieve friendship with a creature with all the warmth of a frozen river? “He does not seem to want a friend,” she pointed out bitterly. “He does not seem to be friendly at all.”

“He told me you had a good first meeting.”

Eryndes’ mouth dropped open in shock, “The elf I met that day is not the same as the one who resides here, who is called Sindar,” she retorted, pointing to the hall, “He does not seem to wish to befriend anyone nor has he an excess of good amity about him. I do not know how you think I would befriend him.”

Aragorn chuckled, “He has never been so surrounded by so many of our kind before. You must be patient with him.”

“Brother, please,” she begged, “Do not bid me such a task.”

His smile dropped and she knew she was left with no choice, “Eryndes.”

Dropping her eyes once more she nodded gravely in defeat, “If that is your wish.”

“Trust me, you would find him more than amicable, and honourable. And he has a razor sharp wit.” She felt his fingers under her chin, forcing her to look at him, “He is worthy of your esteem and attentions.”

Eryndes’s eyes narrowed, a strange fear clutching at her heart, “Just what are you asking of me?”

Her question stunned him and at once she wished she could take them back. “Friendship, Eryndes, nothing more,” he told her severely, peaks of anger pronouncing the tiny age-lines on his face, “You wound me implying I would suggest anything more. I only ask you to make him feel welcome here.”

“And have I not been welcoming?”

Never one for great fits of anger, Aragorn’s face relaxed but his patience with her was still plainly becoming thin. “Find something to talk about; a common ground, an interest. He is more than a simple eleven warrior elite; you recognised this already when you called him ‘ _lord_ ’. He _is_ an elf-lord, nothing short of a general. He is a leader and warrior with few or no equal. The Dúnedain are to be greatly honoured from his allegiance.”

Eryndes gaped, “he has sworn allegiance to you?”

“Of course he hasn’t,” he chided tartly, “What I am saying is he has come here to fight, to risk his life for us. We’re not his people. There is no obligation for him to do so. What’s more, he is my _guest_. I _asked_ him to come here. At the very least I should be able to rely on my own sister, and the _Mistress of Carthal,_ to ensure he is welcome and comfortable here with my people.”

Eryndes looked away from him, having nothing more to offer in excuse. She knew she was defeated. Aragorn made it clear it was her duty.

Duty was duty and no Dúnedan refused their duty, especially not to their king, crowned or not.

Aragorn’s patience had left him when she did not speak and he sighed noisily with a shake of his head, “I will say _no_ more. Good night.”

“Good night,” she murmured, watching him walk away, holding her arms against her in comfort. Brother or king, Aragorn was never so forceful with her and he’d been so twice in the same day.

Watching the rangers and other Dúnedain over the past two days, Eryndes did not see how any could believe how the elf would feel anything but welcome amongst them. All were open and friendly towards him, and often expressed their delight at his being there to stand with them against their common enemy.

The women from the kitchen sure thought wonders of him after he’d rolled up his sleeves to aid in their work.

Had they not praised him? Flattered him? Invited him to return and work with them whensoever he chose?

And yet, Aragorn insisted his friend lacked welcome or friendship at Carthal?

Weary, and a little unsettled, Eryndes climbed the stairs even more anxious to reach the privacy and comfort of her room and finally ease her exhausted body onto her soft mattress.

She did not waste a further thought on Aragorn or Sindar, gratefully closing her eyes and welcoming sleep to take her.


	6. To Those Willing . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those who favoured, sent kudos, reviewed the last chapter.
> 
>  
> 
> * SUPER special thanks to Frannel, who has taken on the awful task of correcting my terribly bad typos, misspellings, and chaotic sentence structures. Also, it has been wonderful to receive such honest and thorough feedback. Danke!
> 
> ** Again, Sindarin translations expertly done by Dreamingfifi of realelvish .net
> 
>  
> 
> .
> 
> "Write ... as if you'll never be read. That way you'll be sure to tell the truth."  
> -Lori Lansens

**Dramatis Personæ**

Aglarebon – Woodland Stallion, Sindar's horse

Aragorn/Strider – Male, Chieftain of the Dúnedain

Baradon/Sculls – Male, Ranger

Eryndes – Female, Mistress of Carthal & Apothecary

Faron/Dusk – Male, Hunting Master

Foruyndes - Female, Mistress of Stores

Laeron/Wren – Male, Ranger

Lobordir/Joust – Male, Master of Stables

Mydedis – Female, Mistress of Housekeeping

Nestdôl – Male, Master of Healing

Sali – Female, Mistress of Kitchen

Sindar/Legolas/Master Elf – Sinda Male, undisclosed Prince of the Woodland Realm on unofficial secondment

Úrion/Bear – Male, Commander of Rangers (Second in Command)

 

 

0000

 

The morning came early for Legolas, just as it always had. Though not requiring the amount of sleep humans did, he was indeed very grateful to have been given a private room and the freedom to make use of it as much as he pleased. The bed was comfortable and the room had all the amenities required for his own personal keep.

Sliding from the bed, Legolas washed, dressed and re-braided his hair without bothering to light the fire or even a candle. There was no need; his eyes could see well enough and he would not be staying long.

Out the window, the rain had stopped and a glittery clear day would soon awaken.

As had long become ritual, he moved into the middle of the room and resting his arms forward with one hand holding the other wrist, he stood there unmoving. Breathing deep into his belly and allowing the light within him to swell, he gradually allowed his memories to surface for a brief parole; a beautiful lady with tresses of long golden hair, her gentle touch soothing, calming. A lady of great kindness; a kindness not once spoiled by temper, yet constant in its boundlessness, and was never ever conditional.

He remembered her smile and the look of the purest love in her eyes.

Drawing in another breath just as deeply, he drifted in amongst the tide of feelings, the flight of memories long past, and unavoidably he heard the echoes of a pain so severe, so heartbreaking; an endless threat lying in wait to resurface.

Opening his eyes he swallowed hard, burying it all tightly once more under the guarded numbness of his heart. Just as he had done almost every morning for nigh three thousand years.

For whatever pain it cost him, remembering the face of one who meant so much to him was a sacrifice he was willing to make.

Relaxing the muscles in his shoulders and back, Legolas again looked out at the crisp pre-dawn then strapped on his quiver and knives. There were still a few hours before he would be needed or missed.

There was another great pain that tormented him, but this pain was curable. Or should be, if only the cure would present itself to him.

Leaving his room and silently as only an elf could, he threaded his way down corridors and two sets of stairs to the ground floor. Easily tip toeing around countless snoring men sleeping on pillows and mats on the floor, he discreetly made his way through the great hall to the kitchen.

His need would be in there or it was certain he would be driven to madness.

Walking straight into the kitchen, Legolas found it empty, the only sound and movement coming from the near dead fire at the far end of the room. He threw on some more wood and brought some life back into the fire.

This time he would need hot water.

He scanned around the large room. Surely, somewhere in there hid his salvation. He had already tried milk and honey, cheese and fruit, the seeds of sunflowers and a couple of the different herbs he'd managed to identify, and yet so far nothing had worked.

Some had even made it worse.

Looking up, he spotted a wiry, woody looking herb and wondered if he would have to find a hammer of some sort to mash it before adding hot water.

He was just about to reach for the dried herb when the kitchen door opened quietly. Every muscle in his body tensed when he saw who stepped through.

She, however, had not even bothered to look about her and so failed to see him standing there.

He knew he had to speak and quickly, even though it would be so much simpler to sneak out unnoticed. He watched her take a kettle of water from the bench and placing it on the fire he'd just fed.

Swallowing, he stepped forward to speak-

-out of the corner of her eye she saw movement and yelped, jumping back in fright.

"Goheno nin (forgive me)," he apologised quickly holding up his hands. "I did not mean to startle you."

Eryndes took a quick couple of breathes to calm herself, "I-I did not realise you were in here."

"I was looking for something . . ." he trailed off noticing how she avoided looking at him, ". . . there was no one in here."

Keeping her eyes low, she moved away further, stepping to the stove to take the other kettle which had sat on the dying flames all night, the one he had set on using. "May I help find it for you?" she asked politely, her eyes still lowered.

His eyes narrowed at her, and from deep within him he snapped, "Avon bronad trî hen sí! (I refuse to endure this anymore!)"

Startled by the harsh tone of his words, she looked up to him in alarm, "My lord?"

"Please do not call me that," he growled and not truly knowing why, "I am no lord to you."

She stepped back, retreating from what must have come across as a thinly veiled slight, "I am sorry, Sindar, I meant no offense-"

The burning in his chest exploded to match the intensity in his glare, "Do not call me that either."

Legolas was aware he was being unreasonable and it snapped something within her, "What would you have me call you, Master Elf?" she demanded without an ounce of civility, "when you have explicitly declared I was not to know your name?"

Legolas blinked, the fierceness of his mood dissolving somewhat, "You are correct of course." He frowned, "I am, sorry, my temper is, unaccountable this morning."

Eryndes did not reply.

"I told you once to think of me as just an elf. If you would call me simply that, 'Elf'."

"You are mocking me?" she asked defensively.

"Not at all," he felt his mouth twitch. "The rangers dubbed me 'Sindar', undoubtedly through their collective lack of imagination, but I would much prefer for you to call me Elf."

She stared at him warily, and undoubtedly he understood why; for surely 'elf' was just as unimaginative as 'Sindar'? It was the same as disputing whether to call her Dúnedan or human.

Yet somehow it did make a difference to him. Somehow it was important.

Even if he knew not why.

Cautiously she agreed, "As you wish, Master Elf."

"Thank you."

Forcing breath into her lungs she dropped her eyes away from his again, but this time to pour herself a tea. "You were looking for something?"

Legolas hesitated. Of all the people he could've ran into this morning, she was one of few who might actually have the answer he sought. Perhaps it was time to give in and seek assistance? "It is a little," he paused, feeling his palms start to sweat. He cleared his throat, trying to not look away or shuffle on the spot, "troubling for me to speak of."

"If you would prefer to speak to a male, Nestdôl-"

"That is not the reason," cutting her off before she caused him further embarrassment, "What I mean is that it is hard for an elf to admit."

"I am a healer," she assured him, "you may rely on my confidence."

He sighed long and hard, but the only other way was keep blindly guessing and hope to find a cure, "I have no love of ale, truly vile poison," he explained, "I only drink it to be sociable amongst men, but the fetid taste and the churning of my stomach lingers on for days." He scoffed with no real humour, "Elves do not like feeling ill and much less owning to it."

He looked about the kitchen, "I was searching, have been searching for something to ease my stomach. But alas, I know little of herbs."

Eryndes gave an easy nod, "This churning leads to indigestion? Burning? Pain in your chest?"

"Indeed," he confirmed, slowly.

"I should like to recommend avoiding ale," she teased lightly with a smile in her voice. Legolas did not share it.

An elf feeling ill was no laughing matter.

Without the slightest hesitation for thought or judgement, she reached up above her head and broke off a few leaves from a dried bunch of herbs hanging from the railing. Crumbling the leaves into a mug, she filled it with warmed water from the kettle.

Standing up straight, she held the mug out to him.

Slowly he moved close enough to take the mug from her. He sniffed the slight burning smell and looked up at her again questioningly. In his experience, plants that smelled burning were usually poisonous.

Eryndes gestured encouragingly and waited for him.

Relenting, he brought the mug to his lips and took a cautious sip.

He didn't move, standing rooted to the floor; a feeling, a tingling of warmth spread from his belly and he reached up to touch his tingling lips.

He took another, much longer sip, "What-? What manner of herb is this?"

"Do you like it?"

"I have never tasted the like before," he paused to look down at the greenish-yellow liquid, "It is . . ." he searched for the right word, "remarkable."

"You like it?"

He cradled the cup, "I do."

She smiled gently, "We call it Uruilas (hot-leaf)."

"Uruilas?" he repeated, "That is a name I am not familiar with."

"Warm to taste and grows as virulent as a weed," she took a sip from her own mug.

"Where does it originate from?" his nostrils flared softly breathing in deeply the Uruilas aroma, no longer smelling like poison, but refreshing, warming.

"The east. Merchants first brought it here twelve centuries ago."

"For tea?"

"Tea, medicine, even confection." She handed him the bunch of the dried herb to inspect.

Taking it, his eyes remained on her as he brought it to his nose, "very potent smell."

"And powerful taste."

"I can attest to that," he agreed, moving his tongue about his mouth, "and the taste of ale has gone."

"You may need another couple doses if the burning in your stomach returns," she told him. "It would seem ale does little good for you and will undoubtedly take a few days to pass. I am surprised Aragorn did not offer this to you long before now."

He dropped his gaze away from her question and studied the herb, delicately fingering the wide, hairy dark green leaves before handing them back to her.

"You did not tell him?" she gently prompted and he did not much approve of the knowing glint to her eyes.

Swallowing the last of the tea, he handed her back the mug, "I am obliged for the tea."

"You are welcome," she smiled, her face lighting up even more than a bright morning sunrise and it became imperative for him to leave.

Without further word he started for the door.

"Master Elf?" he stopped and glanced back at her, "Please, feel free to return."

His brow furrowed, "Return?"

She jumped to continue, "For more tea, anytime, whenever you need it." She waved at the railings of drying herbs and for the first time he could distinguish the Uruilas from the others, "There is plenty of it and also today we will be preparing a confection using Uruilas oil, if it would interest you."

Legolas blinked, twice. "If there is time," he stated evenly. "I will be detained most of the day with the rangers."

"Yes," she conceded with a small sigh, "I imagine you to be ample busy."

"Good day," he gave a small incline of his head then went out through the door without waiting for a reply.

Having cured his ale-illness he now faced a couple of hours of freedom before the morning's patrol. Perhaps a peaceful walk then through the woodland down by the river? And maybe he would find the music of the trees just as soothing to his mood as the Uruilas tea had been to his stomach.

 

0000

Almost two hours later, Legolas returned to the manor grounds through the southern gate and along the main road. If his timing was correct, he would arrive just in time for the morning meal.

The sun had risen to reveal a fresh blue sky that promised the day to be as fine and hot just as he'd predicted.

Passing the wash and bathing houses, folk were catching up on what had been missed during the rain. A group of young boys heaved axes at wedges of wood, whilst others carted their efforts inside to feed the fires in the great hall and kitchen. Some of the older women hung freshly washed sheets and clothing on lengths of twine for drying.

Reaching the elbow in the road, Legolas turned towards the entrance of the great house and immediately felt the back of his neck tingle.

Instinctively his vision shot to the left.

The same child. Again. This time hiding behind the curtain of hung sheets.

Legolas set his jaw and continued on his way without pausing.

After a few more strides, the small figure crept out from the shadow of cover to discreetly follow.

Legolas bit down against his desire to confront the child. If the people of Carthal already possessed an unhappy timidity of him, scaring one of their children certainly would not help Sindar's reputation.

Closer now to the manor the number of folk up and going about their deeds increased, many of whom politely greeted Legolas with a nod of head, a curve of a smile, or with actual words from those of some familiarity. Ever since Aragorn had insisted on their parade around the crowded hall the other evening, many had become more open towards him.

He supposed his offer of assistance yesterday evening would also have helped, however he believed there was still a lot of ground to cover before all of their reservation towards him was countered. Being respected, revered even, by them was flattering to his vanity. Fear was not and threatened to bring the acid back to his weary stomach.

Looking out the corner of his eye, he saw the child still following him but making a fine show of casualness to avoid suspicion from any of the others.

Heading up the stone steps of the manor's main entrance with his long legs at full advantage, Legolas left the child far in his wake. No, confrontation would not do and only serve to tarnish the amity gained over the past two days. Hopefully the child would lose interest.

And soon.

For now, it was time for breakfast.

"Sindar!"

Legolas turned around in the doorway and looked out to the one who called him. Baradon was waving to him from across the large embarkation loop at the main stables.

Retracing his steps, but then turning to the right, he headed over to where the young ranger was standing having lead out both his chestnut mare and Aglarebon. Aragorn then followed out of the stable doors with his own horse.

"One of the farmers spotted tracks that have him all worked up," Baradon told him.

"We investigate everything, ranger," Aragorn told the young man, "Lest we pay for our negligence with lives."

Baradon looked down, humbled, "I saddled your horse."

"Yes, now get on yours," Aragorn admonished him with a shake of his head.

"Le fêl (Thank you)," Legolas took the reins from Baradon, who lead his own horse promptly out and away to the road.

"Seems you have picked up a puppy," Aragorn answered Legolas wordless question.

"Jealous he did not saddle your horse?" Legolas sniggered, climbing up onto Aglarebon's back.

Aragorn scoffed.

"What did this farmer see?"

"Tracks and a lot of them. His farm is one of the outermost in the north so he has the right to be extra careful."

They both urged their horses out into the gathering group of their patrol. By Legolas' count, they were the last to arrive.

"Keep your eyes open," Aragorn murmured to him as they moved to the head of the fifteen man and one elf patrol.

Legolas narrowed his eyes at his friend, "Is that meant to be funny?"

Aragorn grinned then gestured to the others, "move out!"

Aragorn knelt down, his hand ghosting over the ridges and ripples in the dirt, "They spent a good deal of time here; coming and going many times. But for what purpose? This is but a back road with little significance in the surrounds."

"Espionage?" Legolas suggested, his own eyes studying the markings in the dirt, "we scout them, they scout us. We cannot say there is little significance if we do not know their purpose. Ultimately, they must show their true hand and we can only hope to be prepared."

"You think it a large scale attack? That has not happened these sixty years."

"Which does not negate the possibility now."

Aragorn stood up, "You are right. And the sooner we start scouting them out in earnest, the better prepared we will be."

Legolas nodded to the tracks, "by the number of this group, we can at least be assured their intentions are bold."

"Yet," Aragorn stewed, "even a child could not fail to see this. It may well be a warning?"

"Or trickery? A warm greeting?" Legolas groused.

Aragorn looked to him with a nod, "We should get back and begin today's preparations. Faron and Lobordir will be ready with their chosen names at lunch."

"Fortunate timing."

Aragorn gave him a patient look, then gestured back to the company of rangers waiting with their horses, "They wished to be sure of their choices. I cannot fault them for that."

Legolas' reply was a noncommittal shrug. Although he'd wanted to have begun training their elite-scout trainees already, what was one more day?

"The tracks congregate here but then lead back into the dense forest," Aragorn told the others. "There is nothing more we can learn here."

"Are we not to follow them?" called a ranger whom Legolas actually did know the name of; Sírdhem. The man's sour face showed his clear disapproval.

"We cannot follow with the horses and the advantage of the dense forest would be theirs," Aragorn explained briefly, pulling himself into his saddle.

Legolas narrowed his eyes; Sírdhem sneered but held his tongue from speaking. There was a level of insubordination and rage within the man that could make him reckless.

And dangerous.

"Come," Aragorn gestured in the direction of Carthal, "Let us return."

Arriving back to the manor earlier than usual, Aragorn went off to see to some domestic manner involving disenchanted wool weavers, leaving Legolas to wander at liberty.

The midday meal was not for a while and most of whom he was familiar enough with would be still attending to their duties.

He considered going back to the southern woodland to visit the trees - but then to do so would dishonour the promise he'd made.

So there he stood at the door to the kitchen, hearing the women and their animated conversation well before he had even close come to the door.

Their boisterous hooting surely could be heard from Carn Dûm.

"Such a handsome face deserves to be captured by a worthy artist," one of the elder women declared loudly, Sali he assumed by the sound of her voice, "for prosperity."

"A portrait then of Strider for your own living room?" a younger woman taunted.

"Nay, my bed chamber!"

Legolas set his face, took an extra long languid breath then before he changed his mind, pushed through the bi-directional door.

All conversation in the kitchen stopped. There were two and a half dozen of them; some at the benches, others were at the stoves, and three at the washing basins.

Every one of them stared at him with surprise. A few of them were even smiling at him.

"Sindar, are you in need of something?" Sali called out to him.

He raised his chin and looked at the one who had brought him in there.

Eryndes stood at the bench along with most of the other women in the kitchen, bundling powdery sweets together into neat little leather pouches and tying with leather cord.

At his directed gaze, she walked over to him, "Master Elf?"

His eyes scanned the middle counter top, then addressing her quietly, "You have aroused my curiosity."

Eryndes quickly fumbled to open the pouch she still held in her hand. "This is the confection I spoke of."

His long white fingers delicately took a small piece from the pouch. He studied it with interest for a moment, looking like nothing more than simple cooked sugar, and went to put it in his mouth.

"You must not chew," she told him abruptly. "It must dissolve slowly."

His eyes narrowed, "Indeed, I have eaten confection before."

"Yes, of course," she submitted, her face quietly flushing and stood warily watching him place the slither of flavoured sugar in his mouth.

For an instant, he did not react, his smooth countenance not faulting beneath the hopeful expectation on her face. The taste was . . .

"Remarkable," he said coolly.

"You like it?" she asked hopefully.

His lip twitched, "Very much."

Relief flooded her eyes, her face lighting up brilliantly and Legolas could not help feel the hard edge to his manner softening. With sure fingers she secured the drawstring on the pouch and held it out to him.

Legolas' glimpsed at the leather pouch, his chest tightening. "I could not."

"These are made for everyone to share at festival's end," she explained. "As you can see, there is plenty to go around."

Eryndes waited and glancing around the kitchen; they all watched him, their faces bidding him to accept their offering.

Still he hesitated to accept. One of the women from across the kitchen called out, "Go on, Sindar. You've been helping us exceedingly well this last month, and even more after yesterday. You've earned it more than most could claim."

He conceded finally and cautiously took the pouch from her, "Thank you."

Eryndes beamed brightly at him. Hesitantly he gave her a nod then left smartly.

Even before the door had closed completely, the room full of women started up their nonsense once more.

"He's a very charming fellow, that one," said one of the women, "A little lonesome maybe."

"Bet you'd love to keep him company, eh, Sali?"

Thunderous laughter followed Legolas as he marched towards the exit and sometimes he could readily curse the gift of keen hearing.

"And why not? He is unquestionably the fairest face this side of the Grey Havens." Sali declared.

"Dream on, woman!" laughed another.

"Sali likes him because she knows he's the only one around here older than she is!" The whole kitchen erupted again with the sound of laughing women.

"Perhaps Briel can sketch him too, many times!" Sali cackled to herself. More thunderous laughter erupted.

It was not at all surprising for Legolas; he could always expect that kind of drivel from all kinds of folk, not just women-folk. He shook his head and kept walking. He did, however, have better things to do then to be around to listen to it.

With a sigh, he gladly reached and threw open the side door.

Perhaps next time he would be a little more prudent when handing out promises.

Walking down by the sheep paddock, his brow furrowed and he fingered the leather pouch still in his hand. Such a small token to a son of a king, and yet to the Dúnedain who had so little, seemed so much. He remembered their faces, the strength of their gratitude in having their gift accepted.

He smiled.

Perhaps he should learn to be more patient with them.

0000

Legolas finished his plate, his belly full of lunch fare and sat back, digging his hand deep into his tunic. Finding the small leather pouch in one of his many hidden pockets, he took care to gently pull it out.

"What have you got there?"

He looked wryly at Aragorn, a self-satisfied smirk working its way to his lips, "A gift from your women-folk."

With exaggerated care he undid the leather ties and took a small piece of the confection between his fingers.

"Those aren't meant to be given out until the end of the week. The women guard them like treasure."

"Then perhaps next time you will be the one offering your help to ease their burden."

Aragorn laughed, "You helped the women butchering after all? I thought you disliked getting your hands dirty."

Legolas shrugged and popped the slither of heaven into his mouth, "To those willing to bloody their hands go the spoils."

"Surely you will spare a single-"

"Indeed, I will not," he triumphantly cut him off, retying the pouch quickly and replacing it back inside his tunic.

"And you felt it necessary to show off your spoils now, in front of us all?"

Legolas glanced across at Faron and Lobordir, "Even sweetest victory is never so sweet until the opportune moment comes to crow about it."

They laughed, well Faron only smiled.

Aragorn shook his head, "Sindar, melloneg (my friend). You are cruel."

Legolas smirked, "Perhaps so, but not so cruel to not offer help to those who wish for it."

"Will you be baking bread for us next?" Lobordir teased.

Faron cleared his throat, "Maybe we should ignore Sindar's gloating for now and speak about the list."

"Úrion has given me the names from his group," Aragorn told them, speaking for Úrion who'd already left to go on his afternoon patrol. "Dagnir, Hathol, Oldhin and Orthellon." Aragorn nodded to Legolas, "Sindar and I have chosen Trîw, Baradon, and Cordoves."

Lobordir, Cordoves' brother snorted quietly, "Our mother will just love taking her kids when we go on missions." At Legolas' unspoken question, he continued, "Cordoves is a widow now. I help out where I can."

"What of Sírdhem?" Faron asked.

Aragorn paused, "He was my choice too, but I just thought after last month, maybe-"

"Maybe giving him something to aspire to might bring him 'round," Faron offered sharply.

Legolas cut in, "I cannot imagine anything bringing him 'round after having his wife and child torn to pieces in an orc raid."

Faron eyed him defensively, "He's a good man and is one of the best we have."

"I do not doubt his skill," Legolas informed the Hunting Master, "What I do fear is his grief taking control during a mission, endeavouring to seek vengeance and putting us all at risk."

"You do not know him. I do," Faron maintained strongly, "he would never put a personal vendetta before the lives of his fellows."

"We'll put him on the list for now," Aragorn interjected before Legolas could respond, "and we will watch him; closely."

Legolas consented with a single nod and Faron just shrugged. Time would tell who was right. He would be watching.

Lobordir sat forward, "Faron and I have Langwen, Úan and Laeron."

"A child?" Legolas queried, not believing someone so young would have the fortitude to join them.

"Laeron has earned his place," Faron maintained testily. "His age doesn't take away from his skill."

"Of course there would also be Mereniel on the list," Aragorn put in hastily, eyeing both Legolas and Faron, "but she's with child."

"A pity," Legolas muttered, then quickly adding when the men looked at him with disbelief, "Not a pity she is with child. Pity for us; I have found her to be both accomplished with knives and a skilful rider."

"That's sixteen, including us, Sírdhem and Mereniel," Aragorn nodded. "Sindar and I would like to begin immediately, so talk with them and make it clearly understood this is voluntary and dangerous."

"I will speak to Laeron," Legolas stated firmly. "I will not be satisfied to include him until I can judge for myself."

Faron snorted, "Please, feel free. He will not disappoint you."

"Training will commence tomorrow evening," Legolas told them, "We have until that time to gather our chosen."

Aragorn nodded, "Yes, Dagnir, Hathol and Trîw went out with Geledir mustering the cattle herd. They will return in the morning."

"We'll need to train the horses too, or they'll never keep up with Aglarebon," Lobordir suggested.

"That will be your area of expertise, Joust," Aragorn agreed.

"Aglarebon is superior to any beast I've ever seen," Lobordir continued admiringly, "I do not see how even the horses of Imladris can compare."

Legolas smiled proudly, "Aglarebon is ten thousand years of selective breeding. His bloodline is unmatched."

"Though I haven't seen Lord Elrond's stables," interjected Faron, "they're said to be unequalled on Middle Earth."

"King Thranduil would not agree," Aragorn chuckled.

"He would not," Legolas agreed. "Truly, neither would I sight-unseen."

"Surprising your king'd allow you to ride off with one of his prized stallions," Faron murmured.

"There is no surprise," Legolas told him truthfully, "I earned the right to him. He was gifted to me by my lord himself."

That surprised Faron, "Then you can't be a plain elven elite."

Aragorn laughed lightly, "Not many are brave enough to call an elven elite 'plain'."

"I've heard the elf-king is none too generous, a hoarder, a treasure-obsessed fool," Faron ploughed on, "and kings like that don't give away their prize possessions to simple soldiers. Perhaps you merely found the horse?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Legolas saw Aragorn giving him a cautious look but Faron's insults riled too greatly to take any notice. "Lord Thranduil undoubtedly has earned this reputation from gossip spread from disgruntled and justly punished horse-thieves." He levelled his eyes hard at Faron, "or poachers."

Faron's face quickly reddened, "Yes, I hear the mad-king prefers riding deer to eating them. That's when he's not hiding behind his walls, drunk on wine."

Aragorn's hand swiftly landed on Legolas's arm, "Faron, you're out of line. You will not insult King Thranduil under this roof or within these grounds." He then looked at Legolas, "Sindar, I am sure you did not mean to suggest any of the Dúnedain are horse-thieves or poachers."

"Indeed," Legolas stood up, brushing Aragorn's hand off his arm, "I apologise, Aragorn."

"Faron?" Aragorn prompted Faron firmly, who was doing his best to ignore him.

Faron set his jaw but then nodded and looked up at Legolas, "Yes, I apologise too, to you and to your king."

Fury from the insult to his father still bubbling within his veins, Legolas did the only thing he could do. He simply inclined his head marginally and took his leave.

His was a terrible temper and sometimes the only proper, civil course of action was to seek solitude. Again.

Legolas walked out of the great hall, along the corridor, out the centre–side door and out into the courtyard mothered by an ancient and massive cherry tree. Threading his way through the tables, tents, and passed the scratching chooks, he made the main road and proceeded to follow it down towards the southern pole of the grounds.

"Master Elf?"

He saw her coming through the gate to the herb gardens; he saw her long before she'd called out to him, but he was intent not to speak to her.

Or anyone.

But especially not her.

"Master Elf?" she asked, "Is anything the matter-?"

He continued to storm on by but after another three strides he stopped, tightly squeezing his eyes shut in misery.

Uncomfortably, he turned back to face her. As he expected her face was full of shock and insult. "Forgive me," he breathed, "I seem to be still suffering an evil temper today."

At once her face dropped to concern, "Is your stomach still bothering you?"

He blinked. "Is my what-?" he stopped, his memory finally catching up with his temper, "uh, my stomach is fine. Thank you."

"I am pleased to hear." She pursed her lips, "well, I will not keep you."

Legolas watched her walk away, back towards the manor; watched her and very much wanted go after her. But he didn't.

He couldn't. More than that, he shouldn't. It was better this way.

Drawing almost reluctantly away from her departing figure, he continued on to some unknown location away from the manor.

"Legolas," he heard Aragorn call softly and he clenched his fist, but did not stop. He had almost reached as far as the south gate, near the great wood-pile and one of the many hay and farming machinery sheds.

"Legolas," Aragorn said gently, coming up to stand beside him, "Faron was just causing trouble. He wouldn't have said anything if he'd known to whom he was speaking."

Legolas sighed, "I knew as much already, Aragorn, and please do not use my name."

Aragorn looked around them, "There's no-one around."

"And if you accidentally use it in company?"

Aragorn stared at him patiently, "I have kept your secret for nigh thirty five years, I will not betray you now."

"I understand Faron's desire to antagonise me though I know not why," he scoffed, "nor care. His opinion has no bearing upon me. Having said that, I am not prepared to sit in silence and allow insults to my father go unchallenged."

"I think you gave as good as you got," the grin that spread on Aragorn's face surprised him, "And given the chance, every one of your father's naysayers around here would gladly lay down their life for him." Aragorn paused wryly, "or you."

"Fortunately I am not in the habit of granting others to fight or die in my stead simply to garnish their own honour."

Aragorn sighed deeply, the first sign of irritation. His friend was a calm man, but Legolas had an inherent ability to draw out of Aragorn's frustration more than most. "Leg-" he stopped himself, "Sindar, only you would see folks' wish to serve you as an insult."

He raised his brow, "I do not need to be served. I have no need of servants."

"But obeyed?"

"Of course." Seeing Aragorn's face souring even more, he sighed, "A king is served, Aragorn, because he is king. The worthy commander is obeyed because he has earned the right."

Aragorn went to reply, but Legolas cut in.

"I have no wish to be served. What I want is esteem from others, earned by my merits alone and be obeyed because I am the greater tactician, because I command better. Surely you understand this?"

"You know I do," Aragorn grumbled. "And I have never questioned your wish for anonymity. However, when you choose a life without a name, there is a price to be paid – namely withstanding the idle gossip from folk who know no better."

Legolas shook his head, "It is not an understanding of this I lack, but patience."

The corner of Aragorn's mouth curved upwards, "You do have a short fuse to a vile temper, melloneg."

"Which is why I was seeking solitude," he pointed out and towards the southern wood, but he could already feel the cloud of fury beginning to break apart. Aragorn's inherent ability was to soothe Legolas' turbulent but passionate spirit.

"This is why you should unleash your temper upon me," he boasted with a wide smirk, "I can withstand your ire without taking offense and save some unfortunate bystanders the grief."

Legolas's smile dropped, the memory of his temper's latest victim bringing back his bitter regret, "Perhaps I should. Perhaps then this is for the best."

"Sindar?" Aragorn queried.

"Never mind," he dismissed then indicated the south gate again, "I will still walk awhile with the trees. Care to join me?"

The patient expression returned, "Thank you but I have no need to hear the music of trees when the music of love fills my heart."

Legolas shrugged unconvinced, "If you believe that is all you need to be at peace."

"It is," Aragorn slapped him lightly on the shoulder then left him to his solitude.

0000

"Have no doubt these reconnaissance missions will be extremely dangerous." Having finished his lesson that afternoon, Legolas dismissed the students and then pulled Baradon and Laeron to the side for a talk.

He'd spoken with Baradon first while the younger of the two waited at a polite distance. Baradon had agreed swiftly and Legolas sent him on his way. There was no need to question Baradon's readiness for this undertaking. Legolas had seen the ranger in combat.

Now it was Laeron's turn and Legolas was not going to pull any punches.

Laeron, however, was just as unflappable as his father, "I understand."

"Each ranger will be responsible for evading the enemy should he become separated; surviving alone up to two hundred miles of wilderness with orcs hard upon your trail. There will be little if any chance of rescue."

The young boy of barely seventeen years nodded enthusiastically.

Legolas' eyes narrowed, "Make no mistake, the training I will provide will be harsh. The Dúnedain rangers are known to be resilient and resourceful during times of great hardship, but I warn you," he leaned in closer, "I mean to test that."

Laeron beamed brightly, "It is my great honour to be asked, Sindar, and I promise I will not fail you."

Legolas stared hard at the youth, unimpressed for such words were so easily spoken. Yet neither was he disappointed for the boy was confident, much to Legolas' approval.

He stood back, folding his arms over his chest, "I will give no compensation for your age."

Laeron continued did not flinch under his scrutiny, "I would never expect compensation, and would be ashamed to receive any."

Legolas considered his words as he considered the fire in his eyes and zeal in his stance with sharp regard. "Strider and I will be your captain. Your father will have no say."

Laeron, son of Úrion, smirked, "Many years have passed since I needed to run to my father's knee for help. I'm seventeen, Sindar, and have been of age for two years now," standing up even taller, almost pleading now, "I will not fail you."

"We shall see," he said dismissingly. Turning away, Legolas picked up his bow from where it rested against a target and secured it to his back. Taking his time, he gathered up his arrows one by one and slotting them back into his quiver just as slowly. Out of the corner of his eye, Laeron did not move or speak, nor did he look away from his teacher.

Young or not, the boy was skilful and determined. Legolas had no choice but to yield; apart from his age, he could honestly see no reason for holding the boy back.

Perhaps Faron had been right about him.

Turning sharply, he stood once more before a resolute Laeron. "Sleep well this night for it will be your last for days. Be at the stables four hours after supper tomorrow evening," he commanded. "The only way to improve the night vision of men is to train in it."

"Yes, Sindar," Laeron replied crisply.

Having nothing further to say, he knocked his head to the side in dismissal. Laeron inclined his head respectfully then bounced away. Legolas could not help but wonder at the new spring in the child's step and how long it would last.

He scoffed at himself. Neither Laeron nor Baradon flinched under his scrutiny or upon hearing his frank warnings; perhaps his time amongst the folk of Carthal was making him soft.

Watching the sun dip down behind the hills to the west, Legolas breathed in the icy air and left the training ground for the great hall and dinner.

0000

The next morning started even earlier for Legolas and walking straight in through the kitchen doors, he snapped a few leaves of the dried bunch as he'd seen Eryndes do the day before and crumbled them into a mug with hot water.

Admittedly, his stomach did not suffer as it had done the morning before, however a long day lay ahead of him and it was folly to embark without taking the precaution of an easy remedy.

Besides, it was delicious.

Sipping the hot tea with gusto, Legolas looked out the window into the pre-dawn morning. The air was still, icy, and the moon was absent, allowing the sky to be brimming with stars. The quiet tranquil morning outside welcomed him, urging him to surrender himself to the sweet melody of life that would soon begin with the rising of the hot summer sun.

It had been a month since Legolas had escaped the confines of Carthal or its people. He did not dislike remaining there or being amongst the Dúnedain, but he could not deny his elven blood hungered for the comfort of a more familiar setting.

So too did his heart ache for comfort, something more than a simple walk amongst trees could provide.

Without moment's warning, the door to the storeroom flew open and through it walked an elderly woman with long silvery hair and holding a sack up in triumph. "Good morning, Sindar. You're right on time."

"On time?" he queried with a lowered brow.

"You'll need these on your way," the old woman tossed him a small leather pouch with a wink.

Capturing the pouch, Legolas was about to tell her he still had the confection he'd received yesterday when he felt the contents; too round to be sweets. Pulling on the ties, he was surprised to see the bag contained a large amount of dried berries.

Looking back at the woman, he shook his head, "Why-"

"A growing lad needs a little something extra special on his plate and they'll do you the world of good."

He blinked, "I have not grown a hair's breadth in almost three thousand years-"

"Yes and you won't if you do not eat well," she waved at his stature, "You want to be tall don't you?"

Legolas was about to point out he was taller than any of the Dúnedain when she continued merrily, "but don't tell anyone where you got them. Foruyndes keeps the only best treats for her favourite lads and lasses but we must remain hush. The others would be jealous."

His mouth was agog, "Who is Foruyndes?"

She cackled but not unpleasantly, "Goodness, boy! Me! I am Foruyndes, Mistress of Stores, Keeper of Secrets and Honey-Wells."

Legolas regarded her with a tilted head, beginning to believe perhaps this woman's mind had gone.

She walked over to the bench and put the sack down, "You will also need something sturdier to keep you going during your long ride." Unloading the contents of the sack, she showed him a wrapped wedge of cheese, dried meat, two dried figs, an apple and hunk of bread. "I trust you can find your own fresh water?"

"How did you know I was-"

"Leaving for the day? Foruyndes knows everything."

"Keeper of Secrets?" he suggested.

"And Honey-Wells."

"Which means what?"

She pointed to the bag of dried berries in his hand, "Every titbit and trifle of goodness for the soul; berries, candied fruits and nuts, truffles, quail and everything sweet. I keep my kids growing strong on more than mere devotion to duty," she proudly boasted. "Now, I have not packed you enough for dinner, so be sure to return in time to teach your students before dinner."

Legolas looked from the sack to her, "I am not growing. I am fully adult."

"Yes, yes," she waved his words away. Taking his hand she wrapped the sack's straps around his fingers. Moving away, she went to the back of the kitchen and added with a stern voice, "Now be gone and return safe. I expect every crumb to be snuffed before you return. How you expect to grow strong if you go hungry?"

Legolas watched her, now quite certain she was mad; mad but indeed kind.

Just as the women had been yesterday.

And it was true he'd planned on going hungry until his return instead of rifling the storeroom for his own selfish needs. After all, his leaving the Dúnedain for the day was not for a mission, but for his own private desire. Going without was no real hardship for him as he'd learnt such discipline since his youth; in times of war one could not expect to eat as well as in times of peace.

Looking over to Foruyndes tending to the fire, he wondered. Whether this woman was mad, she must still possess mental powers enough to remain Mistress of Stores, and he did appreciate her thoughtfulness. Even if she was mistaken about his need to grow.

"Go, go!" she laughed when she saw he'd not left, "Surely you're not expecting Foruyndes to give up more Uruilas sweets? Not after Eryndes already palmed you a bag days before anyone else would get any. Cheeky girl. Only Foruyndes is Mistress of Honey-Wells."

His lips fought to hold back the urge to laugh. If she truly was mad, it would not be at all decent to laugh at her. Instead he smiled as warmly as he could, "Thank you, Foruyndes,"

"Yes, yes, now, off with you before someone sees and accuses me of favouritism."

Keeping his smile, he swept the sack over his shoulder and tied the berries to his belt. He stopped before opening the door and looked back at her, "Quail are scarce this time of year, but the trees are full of partridge."

"Sindar, why you very fine lad!" Foruyndes tapped her nose twice, "Bring them in through the back door upon your return. I will be waiting."

Minutes later, Legolas climbed onto Aglarebon's back and urged him off down the darkened main road towards the gates, his tucker-bag snugly tethered to his saddle and his fingers already eagerly digging into the berries.

0000

Some ten hours later, Legolas handed Aglarebon's reins to the young ranger on stable duty and after quickly ducking in and depositing five head of partridge secretly to Foruyndes, he headed along the north of the manor towards the archery practice area. He was not late, but neither was he early. The Dúnedain who faithfully attended his teachings were never late and arrived early to make certain of that.

It was only respectful for him to ensure he did the same.

Walking passed the wool house and water reservoirs, he glanced to the movement in the fenced garden. Men and women hoed weeds and pulled carrots, each under the cover of large straw hats to keep the baking sun at bay.

The warm day out riding amongst the trees and the wind had been a welcome respite for him and he'd returned to Carthal with a lighter heart.

That had been his plan. Lighter, invigorated, but also focused. The troubles of the past couple days had flown away with the temperate breeze and Legolas once again felt in charge of himself.

No longer would conflict plague him.

Passing the vegetable gardens and the folk toiling away, he came to the path between the two gardens. On one side was the vegetables and the other was the herb garden, and to his dismay, the long sought peace within him dashed away like it never existed.

Ahead, kneeling down over herb bushes was one such bringer of conflict.

Slowing his pace, he would silence his footfalls enough to pass by unseen and be free to continue on his way to his students.

Keeping to his stealth, Legolas watched closely for any sign he'd been noticed.

He watched how the brilliance of her lightly flushed skin was almost overshadowed by the brilliant shine to her hair, like a river of polished onyx flowing down from underneath her hat, cascading down her back in the shimmering light.

He watched how the fabric of her earthen coloured dress pooled around her, and leisurely slipping across her back as she shifted her weight.

He watched how aptly her fingers picked over the herb bush, plucking the choicest leaves and tender stem, placing each gently into her basket. Such slender hands nimbly worked with practiced ease, deftly pinching and twisting her carefully chosen greenery. It reminded him of the day he had first seen her, kneeling in the grass, picking up apples with those same graceful hands.

Closer to her now, he kept his face forward and maintained his pace.

"Master Elf?"

He stopped, his hands going limp at his sides. Holding back a sigh, he turned to her.

"I am sorry, to stop you," she wet her lips, her hands folding neatly in her lap, "but you are going to the archery range?"

"I am," he told her quickly, conveying his need to continue, "My students await me."

She breathed in, her eyes regaining focus upon him, "Laeron was helping me earlier, but left to attend your lesson. When you have finished, please will you ask him to return?"

"Of course."

Her lips turned upwards in a small smile, "Thank you."

He wanted to continue on his way, but his feet did not seem to belong to him anymore and without thinking asked, "What is it you need help with?"

She glanced back up at him, "the water channel gate is stuck again. Laeron was able to pull it loose a few days ago, but it has seized again."

His chest tightened, "Where is this gate?"

"Oh," she faltered, "No, please, I would not dream of asking you-"

"Why would you not?" he cut her off a little harder than he intended. "That is it over there?" he pointed and marched over there without waiting for her answer. The channel was filled with water drawn in from the water wheel down by the stone wall, but did not spill into the gardens. The flow was trapped and overflowing by what he presumed was the immoveable gate.

The 'gate' was simply a sheet of metal with a handle, slotted snugly into grooves made into the channel. He reached down and grasped the handle.

Hearing Eryndes coming up to stand near, he started to pull. At first he tried a little, then a bit more, and finally he set his feet and gave it a fair tug. There was no way she or anyone but a strong human could've moved the gate this time, just as Eryndes suggested, it was fairly seized.

Fortunately, Legolas was no human, and was not required to strain himself.

The gate gave and slowly he raised it up, allowing the water to flow through into the gardens.

Taking a closer look at the gate, "Rust has set in. It no longer fits into the grooves."

"Yes," she agreed, "I had asked Camaenor to fashion a new one, but water gates are not high on his list of priorities."

His lip curled, "Perhaps you should remind him without a working gate, his plate will be poorer once the gardens start to die."

She sniggered softly, "That would truly be a hardship for him; he eats enough for two."

Legolas knew that to be true, he'd seen the man eat. Just like Úrion, Camaenor was thickset and seemed to require all the extra food just to maintain his physique. He indicated the gate, "Once enough water has passed, I can put this back but I cannot guarantee anyone else will be able to pull it free once more."

That wasn't vanity, it was fact. Elves were, after all, much stronger than mortal man.

She seemed to be expecting that, "Unfortunately so. I will need to try and file it down quickly before the garden over floods."

His eyes shot to her hands; small and graceful, hands which only a few moments ago held his fascination. The idea of them toiling away with coarse file against rusting iron made his jaw clench, "How long until the field has enough water?"

She shrugged, "An hour, maybe two."

He looked in the general direction of the archery field, "Then I shall return in an hour."

"Master Elf?" she called after him as he set off in the direction of the blacksmith's workshop, the rusty gate tucked under his arm.

"Or two."

"But-?" he heard her question after him. He didn't stop.

Legolas was not generally-speaking a fierce or domineering elf, though oftentimes it did seem to appear that way. The problem was when encountering unreasonable and stubborn folk, he tended to lose his temper.

Two minutes after leaving Eryndes in the gardens, he'd stormed into Camaenor's workshop and demanded he fix the gate and would be back in an hour to collect it. Legolas may not be a farmer, but he did know one scorching day and the plants would wilt and die; a scorching day just like that day.

As expected, Camaenor had tried to make excuses but Legolas wouldn't hear them. He told the big man he would either fix the gate or be the first to go without once the gardens died.

Camaenor had risen up to his full height, which was still two inches shorter than Legolas, and puffed out his chest. "You don't dictate me anything!"

Legolas just stood there, countered the man's glare calmly, unmoving, unflinching.

"All right," Camaenor conceded abruptly, breaking off the battle with Legolas.

"Thank you," he said blandly.

Camaenor swallowed and took the gate from him, "one hour."

Leaving the master of arms to his work without need for further words, Legolas left the workshop and strode down the road towards the practice field. If he hurried, he would only have been a few minutes late.

Just over an hour later, Legolas victoriously returned to the channel by the gardens with a freshly ground gate. Camaenor might not have been happy about it, but he'd remained true to his word.

The Master of Arms even promised to fashion a new gate by end of day tomorrow.

Walking carefully around the now muddy paths, he saw over by the carrots Eryndes was speaking with a ranger Legolas only vaguely recognised as Bregol. He was about her age if not younger, a fair enough ranger, but who smiled far too freely in Legolas' opinion.

Just as he was doing now.

Neither of them had spotted Legolas and he was more than close enough for his ears to pick up their words.

"We'll do it together," he was saying to her, taking a hoe from the fence, "Then you will have time to return to others."

"Thank you," she returned his smile, but ever so much more radiantly, and Legolas felt his fists tighten, "I would be lost without your help. This day has brought nothing but trials."

Sharply, he bent down and slotted the gate home to cease the torrent flow into the fields. Taking a long last look at the couple conversing quietly as they tackled the weeds, he lifted his chin and brusquely left the gardens to return to his students without making himself known.

 

0000

A few hours later, Legolas stood on the great stone wall in the darkness of mid-evening, two hundred metres or so to the north of the main gate. It was usually a good quiet place to stand, away from the raucousness of the festival of summer still in full flight and with sheds, stables, barns, and two grain fields between him and the manor, the noise was minimal.

In another couple hours would see him put the ranger-scouts to his and Aragorn's unique brand of training. Their number now stood at fifteen as one name on the list had respectfully declined. Aragorn had gone on to explain why he was not surprised; Langwen was a mother of four and was becoming more and more reluctant to take on increased duties which would draw her away from her family.

Reluctantly, Legolas could not fault such reasoning. He could only imagine what it was to have a family to protect and nurture.

Ten minutes of peaceful seclusion had not yet passed when it was intruded upon by a lone person coming slowly closer, ambling along the top of the wall.

Without engaging his eyes, he discerned it was a woman; slight of foot, and the flowing rustle of skirts.

He sniffed. And perfume.

Only upon the second sniff did he recognise the delicate scent of a particular mix of flowers.

Looking up into the heavens with a silent sigh, he mused how it seemed the more he tried to avoid her, the more often he'd stumble upon her. Or she did him.

She saw him too, and recognised him; he didn't need superior ears to recognise the sudden loss of rhythmic gait or to hear the soft intake of breath.

They were like to two unfortunates out of a comedic fairytale.

Out the corner of his eye he saw her attempt to retreat without notice and he drew in a deep breath, "Please do not leave on my account."

"It was not my intention to intrude."

Legolas stepped back away from the wall to face her. "You are not intruding," he told her flatly. "How can you be when these are your grounds?"

She pursed her lips, her fingers playing with the long braided hair running her chest, then gave a cautious glance around them, "I am sorry I failed to see you standing here. I was," she paused, "wandering."

For a moment he didn't understand her words. He gave her a dubious look, "You were wandering?"

"Yes," she confirmed, before looking away again, "I am wandering."

He tilted his head to the side and waited. It was an odd thing to claim to be doing.

She refused to answer his silent query for a good few moments, but then conceded with a sharp sigh, "Aragorn forbade me to leave the compound. I had hoped by this time his mood would lighten and withdraw his prohibition."

"And you normally wander outside the compound?"

"Normally," she retorted, "I would do as I please."

An irrepressible smirk inched its way onto his lips and she withdrew defensively from him ever so slightly, "You are sulking?"

Her eyes narrowed sharply, "I do not sulk, Master Elf. I am simply, walking, to regain my patience."

Legolas couldn't help it, the way in which she spoke, her tone so indignant, it tickled something inside him and he laughed heartily. "In other words you are sulking."

Gaping, she stepped forward, "So too are you if I were to judge by appearance."

"Well," he conceded, a little surprised how easily he admitted to it, "perhaps there is truth in that too."

Her feet shuffled a little closer to him and he knew she was waiting for an explanation.

He offered her none.

"Thank you," she said after an agonisingly long minute, "For the water gate. I did not see when you replaced it."

"You are welcome," he replied automatically and in no way relishing her gratitude. "Your race's poor powers of observation are beyond lacking at the best of times."

The smallest flinch crossed her face, "How true. We must seem nothing less than a herd of cattle to your kind."

The skin around his eyes tightened, "You misunderstand."

She met his stare and Legolas let his breath out noisily, "I do not say so with insult, but simple fact."

"Of course," she said finally, her tone as tight as the string of his bow.

"You were busy when I returned," he was annoyed by the amount of bitterness seeping into his voice and how difficult it was to stop it, "I did not wish to disturb."

"Busy?" she scoffed but then shook her head, "I do not think the weeds would have minded."

Legolas didn't answer.

Another awkward, protracted pause passed between them before she said softly, "I am sorry I missed you."

"Pay of no mind," he absolved evenly, yet secretly gladdened; the constriction in his chest eased off somewhat and the tension in his shoulders he had not even noticed until then, slackened.

The awkward silence once more befell the air, turning each second into an eternity and truly he did not know what more to say.

Without a doubt it was smarter for him not to say anything, for anything he did say seemed to come out contorted and wrong. It was not his intention to be so callous or to seem so condescending.

But that was how his tongue chose to speak to her, when indeed it allowed him to speak at all. As it did not now.

The silence intensified, the distance between them falling away like a bottomless chasm in the darkness, leaving nothing but bleak emptiness devoid of all warmth.

Legolas opened his mouth to speak and bring them back from the void but his breath caught. There were no words in his throat. Could he not simply comment on the fair display of stars, or the fresh breeze? Or ask after her daily toils? Ask her about herbs?

Surely with a wealth of knowledge such as his, could he not find something better? He dare not ask her to sing, even though he was certain her angelic voice would help soothe the internal unrest fluttering about in his belly, and got progressively worse the nearer he was to her.

Would she sing the song she'd sung the day he rode passed her cottage?

Regardless, the tremendous pressure in his chest continued to hold back his tongue and everything he wanted to say to her.

With a quiet sigh, Eryndes stepped away and whispered in polite departure, "Well."

The pressure within him abruptly receded, leaving nought but a quiet ache beneath the numb shell of his heart, and he stepped after her, "Posto vê (Good night (rest well)). . . Eryndes."

"Good night, Master Elf."

And just like that she was gone again.

He squeezed his eyes closed against the deafening silence of her departure, absentmindedly rubbing his hand over his face.

Why did it have to be so hard?

Opening his eyes, he looked once more far up into the stars, pleading for their light and beauty to ease and refresh his soul.

Barely a few minutes later the stars blurred and like a whip Legolas' attention snapped; something was stirring the quiet crisp night air. Something was approaching. His eyes narrowed, his ears attuning to the disturbance; a horse and rider, light and fast.

Too fast.

Without hesitation he turned to run, sprinting passing guards who could not have noticed the change in the air, down along the stone wall towards the front gate, "Alarm!"


	7. Standing Fast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Apologies for the delay. And on a personal note, though some of my other stories are more popular by readers, Elf Husband is a work of love. As much as I enjoy writing my other stories, this one remains my favourite and please be assured the only thing that’ll stop me writing would be my untimely death. So, thanks to those patient people, and thanks to those who reviewed, liked, followed and kudos. I hope to quickly deliver many more chapters moving forward. 
> 
> ** This chapter has been split in two because of the sheer size and didn’t want to annoy readers.
> 
> *** Thanks again to wonderful Frannel for being not only being my beta, but also my sounding board! 
> 
> **** Again, Sindarin translations expertly done by Dreamingfifi of realelvish .net
> 
> ***** Reminder: This story is aimed at mature readers. This chapter may contain imagery (of a very mild graphic nature) which some may find upsetting.
> 
> ****** Reminder: I am no song-writer. Therefore I’m using songs I do not own. It can be very hard to find a song that matches situation/character etc perfectly; I hope I’m forgiven for my choices. Each time I need a song, I spend hours on youtube and lyrics websites (not kidding - hours just for one song). 
> 
> This chapter contains the following:  
> * The Soft Goodbye - Written by David Downes - Performance likened to ‘Celtic Women’  
> * Over the Rainbow - Written by E.Y. Harburg - Performance likened to Chloe Agnew.

##  _Dramatis Personæ_

Aglarebon – Woodland Stallion, Sindar’s mount

Aragorn/Strider – Male, Chieftain of the Dúnedain

Baradon/Sculls – Male, Ranger

Bregol/Web - Male, Ranger

Camaenor/Vice - Male, Master of Arms

Eryndes – Female, Mistress of Carthal & Apothecary

Faron/Dusk – Male, Hunting Master

Foryndes - Female, Mistress of Stores

Geledir - Male, Master of Livestock

Gueniel – Female, Midwife

Laeron/Wren – Male, Ranger

Lobordir/Joust – Male, Master of Stables

Mydedis – Female, Mistress of Housekeeping

Nestdôl – Male, Master of Healing

Sali – Female, Mistress of Kitchen

Sindar/Master Elf /Legolas – Sinda Male, undisclosed Prince of the Woodland Realm on unofficial secondment

Úrion/Bear – Male, Second in Command

 

## PART 1

 

Eryndes had only returned to the manor a few minutes ago, enough for her to arrive back into the warmth of a crowded great hall from her walk and uncomfortable encounter with Sindar when, cutting across the sound of talk and laughter, came the bellow of a deep horn.

A warning horn. A horn summoning rangers to action.

There was a lot of shouting both outside and inside, and down towards the main entrance to the house. The folk inside made a mad rush for the doors.

Eryndes went to go follow them.

“Eryndes!” a deep voice cut across the hall; a grave faced Sindar strode over from the opposite end of the hall.

“Do you know the whereabouts of Aith, Glûdh, Parf or Morgulchon?”

His bow, his two white handled knives and arrows, all noticeably stood up from his back. He had not been armed five minutes ago, “No, not since yesterday. Many returned home to see to their crops because of the turbulence of the weather-.”

“Very well,” he grumbled before moving away and continuing on in his haste.

Sindar was armed. Armed, grim faced and looking for Aith, Glûdh, Parf or Morgulchon; four healers who were also rangers.

The _only_ healers to also be rangers.

“Master Elf?” she called, moving after him as fast as her skirts allowed.

He stopped and waited for her to catch up, his silvery eyes guarded even more than usual.

“Please,” she implored him, “something has happened?”

“Indeed,” he confirmed briskly and moved to continue on his way.

She opened her mouth to stop him and ask-

“Orcs raided a farm in the north,” he turned back to answer her unasked question, “One of the children escaped on horseback to raise the alarm.”

She inhaled, “Which farm?”

He looked away, “I do not know.”

“You are going there now?”

His piercing silver eyes returned to her with a frown, “Yes now.”

“Who will you take instead?”

Sindar’s expression did not change, “I will find Nestdôl-“

“Nestdôl? Nestdôl is old,” she advised pointedly, as if it was not so blatantly obvious.

But the blank look on his face made it clear he didn’t understand.

“ _Old_ , Master Elf, so old he can no longer ride a horse passed a swift dawdle. His bones cannot take it.” She continued, “unless you plan on putting him in a wagon-”

“Then tell me who?” Sindar all but snapped in obvious frustration.

She opened her mouth then deflated with a deep, despairing sigh; all the names she might have said, there was only one choice: “I will come with you.” Even as she spoke, a cold, sharp stab of fear struck her heart. An orc raid in the dead of night never a place she wanted to be.

In her mind a pair of horrid black eyes and rotten teeth rose in front of her to slash a blunt dagger across her throat.

Crawling out from under the horrible vision seeking to ebb away her resolve, she stood before Sindar, who studied her with disapproval, “You are no ranger.”

“I am a swift rider,” Eryndes tried to hold her stomach against her sudden bout of nausea. The Dúnedain, ranger or not, did not abandon their duty because of fear. No healer would run from a battlefield when lives were at stake. She squeezed her hands at her sides to stop them from trembling. “I have gone with the rangers before.”

He started to shake his head, “Strider is-”

“-is but one man and may need help if there are wounded,” she pointed out, grateful her voice didn’t quiver. “Is this not why you were looking for the others?”

His disapproval vanished and regarded her thoughtfully, pressing his lips together into a fine line, “I would prefer two healers who both carry swords.”

Eryndes was almost willing to let his dismissal rein, freeing her from this terrible duty. But her honour- “Will you take a slower saddle or continue to search for a healer to carry a sword?”

He set his jaw then let out a low, long breath, “We leave immediately. Dress _warmly_ , it is an hour’s hard gallop there.”

“All right,” she said and he left quickly.

An hour’s gallop into the north narrowed down the numbers of farms, whilst still leaving ten or so to choose from.

By the time she’d hastily secured her cloak and looped her satchel on to her back, Sindar and the young ranger on stable duty had her horse out from his stable, saddling him with sure, quick fingers. Banjo stood amongst thirty or so warhorses, and though standing a good two hands shorter, he looked as equally ready and willing as his fellows.

Tugging on her leather gloves, she hurried over to them.

Aragorn stood with his horse next to Banjo and behind him Sindar moved to his tall grey whose pure white hair stood stark to the late evening darkness.

Eryndes pulled herself up into her saddle well aware her brother watched her, his face one of disapproval, but so much more fierce than Sindar’s had been.

Wasted disapproval for Aragorn couldn’t have disapproved any more than she already did. With a sick feeling in her stomach, she focused on settling better in the saddle, avoiding meeting his gaze, busing herself by checking her boots in her stirrups and ensuring her satchel and cloak were secure.

Sindar climbed onto his horse, “Eryndes, you will ride behind Aragorn and I. Keep to our wake. The rangers will ride around you. On _no_ account deviate or leave our side. We do not know if we ride to rescue or ambush.”

She breathed in, “I understand.”

“Eryndes, you stay with Sindar and me at all times. Do _not_ fall behind,” Aragorn growled at her, jumping up onto his own saddle and pulling his horse to face the gate and road beyond. “Rangers! Move out!”

Sindar was already three horse lengths ahead of them before Aragorn urged his horse forward. Banjo, not accustomed to the quick set off was languid to keep up with the others. But at her quick urging, he quickly gained momentum in his feet and made up the distance in short order.

They were lucky; had they’d been setting off from the main road, both her and Banjo would’ve been left far behind. Leaving off from the embarkation circle of the manor in a good number meant they would not move into full gallop until they’d cleared the main gate, some four hundred metres away.

Setting in behind Aragorn, who’d by this time already caught up to the elven horse; Eryndes  forced ease into her muscles. She might’ve had a bad start but with an hour to go before they’d even arrive, it was imperative to keep her and Banjo at as much ease as possible.

They may well need their strength later.

The hot, sweltering night air of just a couple of days ago had long gone, and the air was as frigid as any normal northern summer’s night; cold enough to turn the top crust of water to ice. Riding hard with the air whipping around her, Eryndes’ face burned with cold, tears streamed from her stinging eyes, and she was thankful for the leather gloves protecting her fingers from the numbing air.

And Banjo, though not bred for war, ran admirably. For an aged horse he remained strong and Eryndes would proudly bet his stamina to be just as stubborn as any of the others surrounding them.

Ahead of her a black and a white horse tore along the road, each rider in complete harmony with his horse. Perhaps she would not wager against the stamina of the elf’s horse if the rumours were to be believed. Watching the white horse thunder along, his long easy gallant strides like poetry was a sight to be beheld. Even in the darkness.

And dark it was.

The thunder of thirty odd horses galloping at speed rang an almost rhythmic melody in her ears, soothing against the turmoil twisting and contorting in her heart and belly.

She volunteered to come along. Not because she wanted to get in sweet with Sindar and make good on her promise to Aragorn, or because secretly she thirst for the thrill of danger. No, it was because unfortunate situations like this called upon healers to attend.

Fuieryn’s words echoed in vibrant memory; ‘From _when battle rages, until every warrior is healed or succumb to wound, a healer is sworn incumbent_ ’. This was the duty of any healer of the Dúnedain. Her duty.

How she wished one of the healer-rangers had returned from their homes earlier. Her face screwed trying to force away the thoughts of orcs, stinking of rot, cackling with unimaginable evil intent, lunging at her from the darkness.

Squeezing her fingers around the reins, she looked at Aragorn. He was so strong, so brave. If only they were more than siblings of honour, if her blood were of the same make as his. Perhaps then she would not suffer such weakness in the face of danger.

Eventually, and to Eryndes’ relief, Sindar and Aragorn slowed their pace. They stopped atop a crest and even without the light of day, Eryndes knew there was a small path bleeding off to the right and followed the descent of the hill to a good sized homestead.

Eryndes’ heart sank. The small road lead to Amdirbarad and Langwen’s farm.

“Quiet,” Aragorn shushed the already silent rangers.

Sindar, though, shook his head solemnly.

Aragorn slumped marginally, “Do they linger?”

“We should be cautious and not remain long. I cannot guarantee they do not hide at short distance, lying in wait for us.”

“Lobordir?” Aragorn called quietly, “take your troop and secure this side of the ridge line. Rest of you, follow us in. Ready arms. No noise.” He pulled out his sword, his eyes flicking at her then he set his face forward.

Sindar didn’t have a sword nor did he draw his blades. He did not even pull his bow from his back. What did that mean? Was he so confident? Or was his belief in his powers of observation so trustworthy? She remembered his words from earlier and considered perhaps the elf was really as good as he claimed. Well, if he could sneak around with no one noticing, then surely he could spot orcs in hiding.

Eryndes hoped so. Biting her cheek, she pushed Banjo on to follow Aragorn and Sindar as they lead the some fifteen rangers onwards and down the small track towards the farmhouse. Silently, Eryndes looked out at the darkness, a bead of sweat trickling down her spine.

The house came into her view, eerie because nothing looked amiss. Smoke gently puffed out the chimney, and a soft glow from the fire peeked through the shutters.

Everything seemed normal.

Then the door came into view; lying in the dirt, ripped clean off its hinges, flooding the outside with more firelight.

“Clear?”

“Clear,” Sindar answered Aragorn.

“Sírdhem? Baradon? Torches.”

Obeying, small flames burst into the darkness.

On the ground she could see a trail, like something or someone had been dragged.

Aragorn and Sindar dismounted swiftly. “Six of you, secure around the house and barn. Rest of you, check for signs of the family.” Aragorn looked to her, “Eryndes, you stay with us.”

Obediently she got down from her horse and moved to Aragorn’s side.

Sindar, she noted, edged in closer to them, “Surprise attack. The orcs tried to take them alive.”

Aragorn nodded. Eryndes frowned but held her tongue. Rangers could read tracks in the dirt and the disarray of a skirmish like a children’s storybook and undoubtedly elves were just as adept.

They need not waste time explaining it to her; she did not need to know.

“Strider. Sindar,” a voice called softly.

Aragorn took her elbow and the three of them followed the voice.

Three rangers stood near the barn, their horses with them, and as they approached them, one of them pointed, “There. And looks like the rest over there.”

“I will check this one,” she told Aragorn. Aragorn pointed to three of the rangers and gestured to her. When they nodded, he went with Sindar to check the others.

Clenching her jaw shut, Eryndes carefully made her way over to the forlorn figure lying facedown in the grass and straw. A woman her blood moistening the straw and dirt, her dress ripped and torn.

Kneeling beside her and taking a deep, fortifying breath, she carefully took a hold of the woman’s shoulder.

And gently pulled back.

Rolling over, the body gave up its identity and she bit down hard the need to scream, cry, or both.

“Well?” one of the rangers, Sírdhem, demanded.

Easing the pressure on her jaw Eryndes choked, “Langwen.” Her eyes twitched but she refused to allow herself to weep.

Though the cut across Langwen’s throat left little doubt, she checked for a pulse regardless.

Her heart was silent.

With a trembling hand Eryndes reached over and closed her friend’s glazed, lifeless eyes.

Squeezing her own eyes shut for a brief moment, she opened them again and did her duty.

“A light?” she called.

Sírdhem came closer holding his small burning torch. There were deep, coarse slashes to her arms, legs and  . . . one of her hands was missing and there were bite marks to the wounds on her shoulders and chest. “She is dead.” Swallowing, she stood up and faced them, “A slash to her throat. But . . . then, mutilated by orc weapons.” Or at least that is the order she hoped, evidenced by the lack of defensive wounds to her . . . remaining hand and the relatively small amount of blood. “And then gnawed.”

Aragorn she saw had come back to stand with the three rangers. He closed his eyes briefly then nodded, “Looks though she took out a dozen of them before she was struck down.” He paused, “We found Amdirbarad and the two girls.”

“The girls?” she asked with bated breath.

“Died at arms.”

A small mercy. Gundabad Orcs were well known for their taste for defiling women and children in the most heinous, unspeakably evil ways. The girls’ deaths were tragic enough but they were at least spared the torment of living for the sport of orcs.

Eryndes looked across to three of the rangers, “Please, we will need to get them onto the horses.”

They nodded and came forward to do their unfortunate duty.

“What of the little boy?” she came to stand next to Aragorn. “What of Amarthedhel?”

Aragorn paused, “There’s no sign of him.”

His pause left her hollow, and she grasped his shoulder to stop him moving away, “He could be hiding-“

“We need to re-join the others-“

“You know what orcs do to children!” her own terror adding to her desperation.

“Eryndes,” Aragorn took her hand from his shoulder, “we cannot stay here. These tracks are still fresh and their number is great. Too great. We must wait for sunrise to mount a search.”

“Perhaps the orcs did not leave sooner as they were searching for the child?” Sindar offered, coming around to where they were standing. “We found no tracks suggesting the taking of a prisoner.”

Eryndes looked at him, “Yes, he could still be alive. We _must_ search for him.”

“We have not the numbers to remain,” Aragorn shook his head, “And if the orcs failed to find the boy-“

“But he does not hide from us,” her mind on the fate of the little boy not more than four years old, she quickly brushed off his hand and marched over to the edge of the bushes.

From behind something grabbed her shoulder hard. “Eryndes!” it was Aragorn. “Have you lost all sense?” he demanded severely.

The sheer fierceness of his regard left her trembling, lowering her eyes in capitulation.

“Remain here with the others,” he ordered, then looked to the elf, “Sindar and I will search for the boy.”

She chanced a glance at his face, to thank him, or to see a glimpse of forgiveness, but found his hostility unwavering and so returned her eyes to the ground.

“Remain here,” he growled then spoke to the rangers behind them, “Remain vigilant.”

“Yes, Strider,” one answered.

Backtracking to the horses and the other rangers, she found they’d finished securing the four bodies onto the shoulders of their horses.

After a few minutes, they heard a loud cry.

Eryndes looked to one of the rangers, Úan, she recognised him, “Should you not follow them?”

“Shhh,” Úan said quietly.

“Remain silent,” Sírdhem commanded sternly.

The third ranger, young Laeron, came to her side, and spoke gently, “Just a startled fox. They will call if they need us. But for now, we must be silent.”

Eryndes returned her eyes to the darkness surrounding them with no small amount of trepidation.

A hand touched her arm.

Laeron looked upon her kindly, “Worry not, Strider and Sindar can take care of themselves.”

Taking a deep breath to calm her racing heart, she nodded.

For what seemed an eternity, they stood silently together, the rangers standing ready with their blades drawn and axes at the ready. Young Laeron, she saw, had edged around her so she was now encircled by them.

Waiting, her breath far too loud to her own ears she fidgeted with the hem of her cloak and tried to be calm. Her mind tormented her with the vision of orcs slashing, laughing cruelly, waving blades and sticks. A girl screamed.

Blinking, Eryndes looked up at Laeron and the others. But they didn’t react. The scream had been in her head.

The horses stood as silent as their masters, ears pricked and eyes keen. Sindar’s great elven stallion stood tall above his companions, his eyes seeking out into the darkness.

A slight noise of a bush rustling turned her and she breathed a sigh of relief to see Aragorn striding quickly but quietly back into the light.

The boy was in his arms.

He brought him over to them and laid him gently on the ground.

The boy’s clothes were torn and he was covered in blood. Red blood.

“Injuries?” she whispered urgently, taking off her gloves.

“I don’t know,” he answered and both of them hastily searched for broken bones or bleeding. “His arm is broken. Cuts, abrasions but-”

“It is not his blood,” she agreed, “Not this much from a few cuts. Must be from one of the others?”

“His brother was struck with a dagger as he fled,” Aragorn told her.

“Help me hold his eye open.”

Aragorn pulled back the boy’s left eyelid, “Úan? The light?”

Úan moved in closer to them to shine the light from the flaming torch onto the boy’s face.

“Reaction,” Aragorn nodded approvingly.

Pressing her fingers to the boy’s throat, “Heartbeat is strong and paced. Passed out from the cold?” she reached for the clasp to her cloak.

“Or terror.”

From her satchel she pulled out a small splint and bandage, “If he awakens, we'll have to force sedative down his throat if we are to gallop back.”

“Let us hope he does not,” Aragorn agreed as she held the boy's arm steady for him to quickly secure the splint.

“Strider?” one of the rangers called, “Should we not make haste?”

“I will carry him,” Aragorn said, “Sindar will cover our retreat.”

Eryndes was already wrapping the boy in her cloak, “I will carry him.”

“Eryndes-“

She carefully reasoned, “What use am I with a sword? Will yours not require your arms?”

For a heartbeat he ground his teeth but then relented, “Get on your horse.”

Swiftly as she could, Eryndes jumped up into Banjo’s saddle and helped Aragorn settle the boy into her arms who was only now starting to fuss. “Aragorn?”

He helped get the sedative vial from her bag.

“Amarthedhel?” she whispered, “swallow, you hear me? Swallow,” she poured a little trickle into his mouth and obediently the boy swallowed.

She pulled his face against her chest and whispered a soft shush, readjusting her cloak around him. “Quite now, Amarthedhel, you are safe. Remain still.”

Aragorn turned back towards the darkness when a sharp click was heard. “Sindar says we are clear,” he told the rangers, “We go now. The others will rejoin us when they see us leave. Eryndes, you ride in the middle. Do not stop.”

She nodded wrapping her arms around the boy but then looked out towards the darkness where Sindar was still unseen.

“Do not concern yourself,” Aragorn snapped, “He will follow.”

Guiltily she faced forward again, swallowing against the sting of his tone. Aragorn mounted and more of the rangers re-joined them.

A small but sharp whistle cut into the darkness and the elven stallion’s ear pricked up and he went charging off into the night.

“Make haste, we do not stop until Carthal,” Aragorn ordered, “Go!”

The now dozen rangers urged their horses into a united flight, Eryndes pushing Banjo hard to keep up just behind those in the front of the circle, maintaining a tight formation.

Wrapping her arms tightly around the boy, she could not see much of anything. She did hear the other half, Lobordir’s group, re-join them when they reached the crest of the hill overlooking Langwen’s family home.

Minutes had passed into their hard ride when a white blur thundered passed the circle of riders and took the place at the head of the company; undoubtedly the elf’s eyes were of more use at the front, guiding the rangers home in the blackness of night.

The cold air grew harsher the longer they rode. Eryndes bit her lip to stop from trembling, her hands shaking, desperately grasping Banjo’s reins and pleading her grip not to fail.

Then a cold spot landed on her back.

Then another. Then one on her head and soon the air was filled with falling drops of icy cold rain. The road quickly turned to mud, the horses in front of her flicking it up and into her face, blinding her eyes.

Yet Banjo ran true.

Something hit her leg, like a small tap. She looked down but saw nothing, just more rain.

Another tap to her arm. Looking out ahead, she could see the rain turned to hail with the wind picking up, blowing across the group of galloping Dúnedain.

After what seemed an eternity, Eryndes started to feel warm. The icy rain had warmed? She felt hot, her brow and her fingers burning. In her boots, it felt like her feet were sweating.

Pushing everything else from her mind, she focused on nothing but holding on, onto the boy, onto Banjo, onto the blur of the white horse ahead of them.

Finally she could see Sindar turn, leading them to the turn off and down the long road to the manor. Lights broke through the blackness and in her relief she could feel her face wet from wind in her eyes.

Coming to a harsh stop, the company pulled their horses away from the front to allow her and Aragorn through. However, Eryndes found she could not move; her vision tunnelled, her hearing distorted and it was fortunate Banjo stopped of his own accord at the back of the group.

She blinked away the haze settling over her suddenly heavy eyes.

“Nestdôl!” Aragorn called out loudly, dropping down at once from his horse and coming to her side. “Give him to me,” he said after a moment.

She tried to move, truly she did but her burning hands would not let go of the reins and her mouth would not open to speak. Her eyes closed again and she felt herself sway.

“She is out!” she heard a voice call.

That was amusing. What was she out of?

“Secure her or she will fall!” Hearing the elf’s voice she opened her eyes briefly, her head swimming in fog and nothing but blurry figures and lights filled her vision.

The little bundle of boy was snatched away from her and she felt the grasp of a hand on her thigh.

“Bring me a step!” Aragorn shouted to someone. She felt rather than saw him begin gently prying her hands off Banjo’s reins.

“What happened to your gloves?” Aragorn demanded and her eyes opened once more.

He stepped away and was back beside her horse, but this time higher. “Come,” she heard Aragorn bade her gently, his arm reaching around her waist, his strong arms pulling her from the saddle. “An hour by the fire and you will feel yourself again.”

She felt herself being passed on to someone and then passed again, back into Aragorn’s arms she thought by the smell of pipeweed and carried away.

From Aragorn’s arms, Eryndes blinked unfocused to see Sindar walking beside them before her eyes closed one last time and she remembered no more.

 

* * *

 

 

Eryndes opened her eyes, then flinching, she battered her eyes to become accustomed to the bright light coming from the fire.

A warm wet cloth passed over her face, firm, almost roughly.

“My sister, you are filthy.”

“Aragorn,” she pulled herself upright, finding she sat in an armchair by one of the fireplaces in the great hall. Aragorn stood towering before her. “Amarthedhel?”

“He is with Nestdôl now.”

She exhaled in relief.

“Did you see it?”

“Did I see it?” she gasped, her chest tightening, wishing he would step away to allow her to stand.

He didn’t, and maintained his position towering over her. “Just answer the question,” Aragorn demanded, “Is that why you came along?”

“No.”

He waited.

“Just fear. In my dreams . . . and waking dreams,” she shook her head, “It is just my fear. I saw no premonition.”

Aragorn didn’t relent.

“Aragorn, I swear it.”

“What was this fear you saw?”

“It was nothing. Orcs, orcs with knives, axes, sticks, coming out from the darkness. A girl screamed.  Nothing more.” She looked down, “I am sorry I am not Fuieryn.”

“Don’t speak like that!” he snapped, “Don’t speak like that. I would never desire her here instead of you.”

She felt his hand take her shoulder, “He should not have brought you along.”

Fists balling, her head snapped up to face him, “He did not bring me. I offered, as was my duty. There was no other-“

“No other? There are fourteen healers.”

“-and none present were able to endure the hour long hard ride. And what of the boy? Would you have thought to look for him had I not?”

“Be that as it may, Eryndes, you are not a ranger and cannot recklessly head into dangerous situations.”

“I was being reckless-?“

“You were when you took off to search by yourself, unarmed, unescorted. You may be brave but you have no mind for danger.”

“I have gone a half dozen times with the rangers. Just because you come back here suddenly this world in which I live is too dangerous for me?”

He walked next to the fire, his back to her, not responding for a long time. “You left your gloves, you gave up your cloak-“

“For the boy!”

“And you are not accustomed to long hard rides at freezing temperatures. What if you had fainted earlier? What if you had have fallen off? Dropping not only yourself but also the boy to the ground in front of warhorses trained not to stop once hard in flight?”

Tears welled threatening but resolutely she refuse to let them fall, and held her hand over her face to ward off Aragorn’s ire, “Yet I did not.”

She felt him take her chin, “I have never doubted your heart. But if you wish to be a ranger, then you first must learn to become a warrior.” His eyes narrowed, “And I know that’s not what your mother would have wanted. I know it’s not what you want.”

“My only wish is to do my duty,” she said meekly, “to do what my family’s honour requires of me. You needed a second healer-”

“Next time, help by remaining here!” Aragorn pulled away, turning not only his face but also his body from her, “You are a gentle soul. And I would have you remain so long after I am gone. You must understand I could not bear to lose you. You are the only family I have left.”

“So I am to stay confined within these walls? Continue to watch my friends like Langwen die and wait for the day we are finally overrun?”

“Eryndes-“

“The boy is fine,” Nestdôl’s voice cut in from above her.

Aragorn faced him, his face calm once more, “And what of his brother?”

“I’ve stitched the wound. Time will judge, not us.”

“And what of Amarthedhel? His mind?”

Nestdôl looked down at her, “He will not speak. Without a doubt he hid and bore witness to it all.”

Turning back to the fire, she ignored the two men until Nestdôl and Aragorn left together; too hurt to respond or look at either of them.

For a long time, she sat there unmoving, rarely blinking, simply staring into the flames.

“How fares the child?”

Eryndes looked up and fought to regain her voice. “His body is sound,” she whispered, looking back to the fire, “but his mind after all he witnessed?” she shook her head in doubt.

“Are you well?”

“Yes,” she answered simply, “I, simply, passed out from the cold.”

“Perhaps next time you will consider taking a second cloak,” he said pointedly, stepping closer to her side.

Eryndes felt her face soften and took the blanket he held out to her. “Thank you,” she said, wrapping it around her shoulders.

A long pause grew between them, as happened out upon the stone wall earlier and Eryndes wondered if he had not already left.

“You were very brave tonight. Do not taint worthy actions with second guesses and hindsight.”

Her breath caught in her throat, she lifted her head to meet his eyes. “Aragorn would not agree,” she finally said, in her astonishment she’d no idea of what else to say. “He said I was reckless.”

“Indeed; you were reckless. Foolish. Were we family I would tell you the same.” A wry smirk grew on his lips, “However, since we are not family, I am free to commend your courage.”

Eryndes remained quiet, unsure how to respond and aware her jaw was agog. She was completely unhinged by the elf’s changeable manner.

Sindar did not wait for her anyway, “Should you not be resting?”

“Perhaps, in a little while.”

“Does your sorrow for the family occupy your mind?”

Eryndes shook her head, and with a deep breath she spouted the rhetoric she had been fed all her life, “The Dúnedain are accustomed to loss. For thousands of years we have fought and died here and each one of us has lost family and friends. None are untouched by grief. We force ourselves to quickly accept the loss and move on.”

Sindar took a moment before clearly stating, “Yet your mind is occupied.”

Her gaze dropped and she could feel the intensity of his stare upon her.

“Speak, if you will,” he pushed gently.

She closed her eyes in her misery with a soft sigh, “Year after year, nothing changes. Here we remain, keeping evil at bay at the cost of our lives; man, woman and child.” Opening her eyes, she told him, “Nothing _ever_ changes except the names of those slain. In the end, does anything we do here truly matter?”

Remembering her words to Aragorn earlier, she scoffed, “Ever we must continue on, standing fast to duty without hope for reprieve.”

Like a slap in the face she remembered to whom she was speaking; an elven lord from Lasgalen. Dropping her eyes, she crumpled in the chair, pulled the blanket even tighter around her, “Forgive me, Master Elf. I am speaking too much. Perhaps I am in need of sleep after-all.” Keeping secured within the blanket like a shield, she rose to her feet.

Sindar, though, was blocking her path and did not move to allow her to pass.

Edging closer to her, his blinkless grey eyes shining vividly in the tones of the firelight, striking plainly at the difference in their height. “For what do you desire forgiveness?” His features, always so stern and aloof, softened, the mask of ice at once melting, trapping her in the well of molten silver of his eyes. All the breath left her, the thunderous pounding in her chest resounding in her ears, “Do you think me insensitive to the plight of your people? Are we not akin, Dúnedain and Woodland?”

This sudden change, his voice as gentle and soothing as the openness to his manner, stole away her countenance as it had stolen away her breath, “No, yes. That is to say we are. I-,” moistening her lips, she tried desperately to recover her wits. “Complaining gains nothing,” she forced herself to breathe, “and is tiresome to hear.”

“Scarcely tiresome,” his voice was so light, she imagined it floating like a amber leaf caught on an autumn breeze, “when I have not heard you speak so before.”

Squeezing her fists hard, the pain of her fingernails digging into her palms pulling her out of the memory of the day she’d first seen him; the day she’d convinced herself never happened she spoke flatly, “Then this is once too many.”

The warmth in his regard withdrew somewhat. “It is late,” he conceded finally, “and you are weary. Perhaps in the new day, your spirits will have returned to you.”

Eryndes felt herself frown and her mouth open-

“I will not keep you any further,” he stepped back to allow her through.

She hesitated before speaking, uncertain as to what had passed between them, “Good night.”

It was as if he’d been waiting for her surrender, giving her a nod of approval, “Good night, Eryndes.”

 

* * *

 

 

Everything had been set and ready for the past hour. The Dúnedain were unfortunately well practiced for this sort of gathering.

However, the rangers . . .

Eryndes looked up at the ceiling and for probably the tenth time.

“Still they speak?”

She sighed and nodded, “I fear they have much to discuss.”

If it were possible, Eryndes swore she could hear her friend’s glare piercing up through the ceiling and into the war-room.

“Do they not realise it’s disrespectful to keep the dead waiting?”

Eryndes brushed past Gueniel to reshuffle the flowers laid out on the tribune, for the fifth time, “They know.”

Sali scoffed from over where she was placing more flowers around the tables, “Perhaps they might do with a stern reminder?”

“Are you offering to be the messenger?” Gueniel bit out.

The eldest woman raised her chin, “I’m busy doing my work. Why don’t you volunteer?”

“I have been working since dawn!”

“Ladies,” Mydedis cautioned from the other side of the hall, “do not argue in front of the dead.”

Eryndes looked up over the tribune, herbs and flowers laid out respectfully in honour of the four prone bodies on wooden stretchers.

Feeling her grief threatening, she looked pleadingly once more to the ceiling. It was wrong to make them wait.

Breathing in deeply, her tired face and muscles tensed in conflict, but it had to be done. “Sali? Mydedis? It is time. Let everyone in. I will see if I can summon the rangers.”

“But you never go in there,” Sali reminded her unnecessarily.

“I know,” she agreed. She did not go into the war-room; not since a child and the last time she’d seen her father alive. And then once more when he was dead. It was a silly, childish superstition; apparitions of the dead. Silly and childish, especially to a woman her age, yet still it held her back from going in there.

Not today though.

Taking the three flights of stairs at a decent pace, she felt if they didn’t release their latest dead from this world, there may be even more apparitions to haunt the manor.

Reaching the third level, she could already hear the voices of the discussion in the long room which took up half the floor.

“We must repay them! We must seek vengeance for the blood spilt!”

“How?” Geledir’s voice called out and the room fell silent, “by sacrificing more blood on a fool's venture?”

Taking a long, deep breath, Eryndes eased herself into the room.

“Eryndes?”

She opened her eyes she hadn’t realised she’d closed. There was no apparition of her father, or of any others, but she did see a couple hundred rangers, men and women, crowding into the room.

The one looking at her, young Laeron, came to stand in front of her, “You’re in the war-room.”

“I realise,” she growled.

“Why?”

“Can you please ask them to hurry up? The dead are waiting.” She inched back towards the door.

Laeron nodded in understanding, following her, “The rangers are in disagreement.”

“We must fight back!” Near them someone yelled.

Laeron waved towards the crowd, “As you can hear.”

Eryndes looked around them, everywhere rangers were arguing amongst themselves, “But we cannot make them wait.”

“The enemy will learn we won’t be taken down like this!”

“We demand vengeance for our slain!”

Laeron nodded, “We can try to get Strider’s attention. Or my father’s.” He took her hand, “Come.”

“No, Laeron,” she tried to hold back.

“We cannot yell over this crowd, they won’t hear us,” he told her, pulling her through the mass of people.

“The battle must be taken to them. How long will we sit here waiting for them to pick us off, one family at a time?”

“We should wait,” Eryndes called out at Laeron.

Laeron smiled back at her reassuringly, “No, it’s fine. As you say, our honoured dead shouldn’t be kept waiting.”

“I will tear those orc beasts apart with my own hands!”

She pulled against his hold, “Laeron, please. Another half an hour will be no further disrespect.”

“Strider must muster the rangers and rip through their ranks!”

Laeron was resolute, continuing to lead her through the room of angry rangers, “There’s no concern. It’s fine.”

“We must demand Strider take action, or find we will decide for him!”

Eryndes tried to pry off his hold, then tore her hand from him, “Laeron!”

Laeron stopped, turning back to her in surprise.

“I said _no_.”

“Oh,” he looked repentant, “all right. Sorry, Eryndes.” He nodded, “We will wait if you want.”

When she started to retreat, he questioned, “Where are you going?”

“I will wait at the back and out of the way.”

Getting to the back of the room, Laeron took the space beside her and they both looked out amongst the crowd of rangers. “I’m sorry.”

She chilled him for a moment, then conceded, “I don’t like being in here.”

Laeron looked down, “I’m sorry, I’ll take you out.”

Placing a hand on his young arm, she soothed, “It is alright. We’re in here now. We will wait.”

Laeron was a good boy, in a lot of ways just like his father, and liked to think of her as his sister or aunt. Which made sense since Úrion treated her a lot like a sister too. Well, these days anyway.

At the head of the room stood the senior lieutenants, the two commanders, one chieftain and the elf, seemingly to be having little trouble conversing together over the noise.

Strider, Bear, and Joust were calmly speaking to their lieutenants and the elf, his eyes were set upon the crowded rangers; stern and yet indifferent.

“Would Strider truly muster the rangers and ride out to Angmar just to appease an angry crowd?”

She opened her mouth and was about to negate it, but then shook her head, “I do not know, Laeron. I truly know nothing of Aragorn’s way in war.”

“Elon’s family, Raemben’s family, Sírdhem’s family and now Amdirbarad’s family,” she saw Laeron’s big shoulders tense, “four families in three months. They must decide to do something.”

The group of leaders finished speaking and moved to face the rangers.

The crowd went eerily silent.

Aragorn stood tall, “My friends, the events of last night have lead us to anger and grief, yet we must not choose a course which will be to our downfall-”

“You’re not calling to battle?” Someone yelled out.

“To where?” Aragorn invited calmly. “Where do you suppose we do battle, Sírdhem? Does anyone know precisely where our enemy is?”

“Angmar!” Someone else shouted.

“Is that where the enemy’s forces are?” Aragorn questioned. “Angmar? It’s a big land.”

“What are you saying, Strider? That we do nothing and allow our families to die?”

“That is _not_ what I am saying, Midhil. We have a plan,” he gestured to his left at the elf. “Sindar has-”

“We should ride out there, let them see our full strength,” someone close by her shouted.

“Carn Dûm is a formidable fortress. Your _full_ strength, three hundred or so rangers would bring it down? Or do you suggest Gundabad?” The crowd looked to Sindar, his arms crossed, the unmistakable look of derision on his face, “With the addition of no intelligence, no knowledge of what lies in wake?” The elf scoffed, “Extinction. That is what that action would bring. Extinction to the Númenórean bloodline.”

“Are we to listen only to the lofty pacifist opinions of an elf? Should we not look to our own?” The same voice this time even closer, and she was startled to see Bregol standing there. Standing rather closely to her.

Even more flabbergasting were his words.

Worrying about the insult he’d just levelled at Sindar, she looked over at him.

And was surprised to find he was still as impassive as ever.

Bregol though was not finished, “We are proud and we have been attacked. We must draw together and take out the masters of Angmar once and for all! Or are we to remain like our _honoured_ guest, talking grand but delivering little.”

Eryndes gasped, wanting to silence him, perhaps shove a handkerchief into his mouth. She instead shifted her gaze back to Sindar, hoping to convey that though Bregol stood at her elbow, she did not share his views.

Sindar’s expression, however, was now one of great _amusement_.

“Let us take up arms-”

“Oh, be silent!” Joust, standing at Aragorn’s right, shouted across the room at Bregol. “Had you any exploits of your own and experience in these matters, or even just possessed purity of facts, we might wish to hear your opinion.” Joust folded his muscular arms across his chest, “As it stands, you have neither and we’ve no wish to hear your slanderous insults. Be grateful our _guest_ doesn’t take out your insolent tongue, boy.”

Aragorn stepped forward, “Eryndes? Why are you here?”

The blood drained from her face as every set of eyes turned to her, “I-”

Laeron slipped protectively in front of her, “She came in with me. They are ready for us.”

Aragorn’s posture relaxed, “Very well. We will continue this later.”

“Later?” Sírdhem demanded, “Later? Has not the time passed for later?”

“Our honoured dead do not wait for us,” Aragorn said firmly.

Most the rangers nodded in agreement and Aragorn left the raised stage and headed her way.

“I am sorry,” she apologised when he was close enough. “I should have waited-

“It was my fault, Strider,” Laeron stood tall and continued shielding her, “I thought we shouldn’t delay-”

“As we should not,” Aragorn patted Laeron on the shoulder, and coaxed him out of the way. “Come, sister. We must not keep the dead waiting.” He held out his arm to her.

Wrapping her fingers around the muscles of his upper arm, she allowed herself to be lead through the jungle of hundreds of rangers and out of the room.

“How we treat the dead is important,” he said gently, cutting into her thoughts, “almost as important as how we treat the living.”

She chanced a glance at his face and found him smiling fondly at her. “I was, angry, last night. I did not mean to be.” He tenderly covered her hand with his other, “forgive me? You know I only desire to keep you from harm?”

“I know,” she agreed softly.

“I spoke the truth when I said I couldn’t bare to lose you and in my fear I lost my temper.” He hesitated, “But if you wish to be able to defend yourself, I will teach you to become a warrior-”

“Thank you, but you know well that is not what I want. I only wish to serve you with honour, as all in my line have done before me,” she recited word for word what she’d already planned at length last night what she would say to him today.

“Eryndes,” he sighed.

“As much as I would desire to take up arms and defend your side and your banner with valour, I know in my heart I would fail you.”

“Eryndes-”

“So I must serve you where I can, in ways I am capable. You needed a second last night, I will not be sorry I did my duty.”

He shook his head then leaned in close, pressing a lingering kiss to her cheek, “Being my sister is service enough for me.”

Eryndes wanted to smile, but it was a bleak day and her heart, her cheer, was taken in grief. Instead she squeezed his arm, “I am glad you are here. Regardless for however long, I am grateful.”

“If only my time here were spent in peace,” he sadly lamented.

She had no answer and they continued to walk, down the corridors, staircases, then into the great hall. Rank upon rank of Dúnedain stood in silence, waiting. Down the path left to them, Aragorn continued to lead her, and the rangers following them, towards the four stretchers laid out in high honour.

As they approached, men took up the corners of each of the stretchers, walking slowly ahead of them in procession. Aragorn slowed them both also, taking their place behind them and they continued out of the hall, down the steps and outside. The stretchers were carefully loaded onto wagons.

Aragorn lead her to the horses, saddled and waiting.

As a long procession, her and Aragorn lead the Dúnedain behind the wagons for the long journey to the farmhouse.

No one spoke for the whole two and a half hour journey in the baking sun.

 

* * *

 

 

Arriving at the top of the crest, the farmhouse and barn could be seen clearly, nothing seemingly amiss. No sign could be seen of the horrific happenings of only last night.

They dismounted from their mounts, leaving them behind to walk the last couple hundred meters by foot.

Aragorn met her and she retook his arm. He tenderly held her hand over his arm and nodded. Slowly they made their silent way to the wagons.

Releasing Aragorn’s arm, Eryndes breathed in deeply, forcing down the lump at the back of her throat, and walked over to the wagon littered with herb and flower in pretty tribute and respect.

Gently she took the small bouquet from her friend Gueniel and laid the bunch of dried lavender down next to Langwen’s body.

Lavender had always been Langwen’s favourite.

Eryndes did not pretend Langwen and her were the closest of friends. Just friends. They’d shared the same age, grown up together. Eryndes taught her four children to sing. Langwen tried to teach Eryndes fishing with a pole and never allowed her to forget how she’d fallen in trying to bring in a catch.

Langwen had been a lady of the Dúnedain; good, kind hearted and honourable. A loving wife and mother. A steadfast and dutiful ranger.

Pressing down against the tears threatening, Eryndes stepped back and took her place alongside Aragorn. It was their duty to lead the dead back to their home, where they were to be released into the next world.

Silently, Aragorn took her hand in his.

Looking down at their hands, Eryndes swiped at her cheek, the first tear to escape her. Resolutely, she swallowed against anymore.

“Come,” she heard him and looked up to see him looking down at her fondly. “It’s all right. There is no shame in weeping.”

Eryndes set her face forward and shook her head. There was no point weeping for lives lost, when soon another will take their place in the constant mourning hearts of the Dúnedain.

In the end, how many tears could she spare until her heart had no more to give?

“Strider?” Úrion said quietly, coming up to them with Joust and Sindar, “We’re ready.”

At Aragorn’s nod, Úrion and his two companions stepped in place behind them and the rest of the lieutenants and their families.

Five hundred odd Dúnedain followed.

With a squeeze of her hand, Aragorn lead her to the first step and the many thereafter as the procession made the whisper quiet journey down the slope of the hill to the farmhouse of their kin.

Once the wagon was brought to a halt, the surviving members of the family took each of the decorated stretchers one at a time, resting them carefully inside the farmhouse.

Geledir, cousin to Amdirbarad, stepped forward and turned to address the gathering, “May they find peace and happiness in the afterlife, free from the strife and toils of this world, held in the comfort of their forebears. May we hold their spirit forever bright in our hearts, blessed with our love and our memories of them live on for eternity.”

Geledir took the flaming torch from Aragorn, and solemnly walked over to the farmhouse thoroughly doused in oil. Taking a knee, he set flame to his slain family.

Eryndes joined by Aragorn’s side, and began to sing:

“When the light begins to fade,

And shadows fall across the sea,

One bright star in the evening sky,

Your love's light leads me on my way.”

The other women joined in harmony the song of farewell:

“There's a dream that will not sleep,

A burning hope that will not die.

So I must go now with the wind,

And leave you waiting on the tide.

 

Time to fly, time to touch the sky.

One voice alone - a haunting cry.

One song, one star burning bright,

Let it carry me through darkest night.

 

Rain comes over the grey hills,

And on the air, a soft goodbye.

Hear the song that I sing to you,

When the time has come to fly.

 

When I leave and take the wing,

And find the land that fate will bring,

The brightest star in the evening sky,

It is our love waiting far from me.”

 

* * *

 

 

There was no choice in the matter; she simply had to find him and she had to apologise. There was no recourse, it had to be done. And now the funeral was over, the burden of guilt grew heavy and would not wait a moment longer.

Humming quietly to ease her nervousness, Eryndes climbed the steps to the manor’s main entrance and followed the long corridor leading into the great hall.

As was before and would be for a full week's mourning, the hall was filled to the brim with flowers and herbs as a mark of respect to their fallen.

The one she sought stood alone amongst it, his body and gaze floating around at the arrangements, in wonder or interest, she could not tell.

Pausing a moment to settle her breath, she cautiously approached him, “Master Elf?”

The tall figure slowly faced her, his face remaining an unreadable mask.

“Master Elf? I wish to apologise for Bregol,” she began, her confidence a little put off by the lack of reaction from him, “He was rude and disrespectful and I want you to know he does not speak the mind of the people of Carthal.”

The lack of reaction still did not change.

“I am very sorry if he embarrassed or offended-”

“Should not the one who spoke the offense be the one to offer apologies?” She saw the corner of his mouth twitch, “Do you speak for him because he fears for his tongue?”

“No, I-,” she stopped, “He is but a child and wishes to make his mark on the world, often unwisely as we saw today.”

There was an unmistakable glimpse of stunned bewilderment on his face, “You, think him a child?”

“Of course,” she confirmed, confused by his question, “I was at his mother’s side when she brought him into this world and held her hand when thereafter she immediately left it.” She continued, “Once you hold them as an infant in your arms, it is hard to think of them otherwise.”

A tiny crinkle emerged between his brows, “I had not realised.”

“Master Elf?” she urged, further unsettled by his odd demeanour.

“To me, you,” he said slowly, “seemed to be very much the same age.”

“I have more than twice his years,” she told him, “but I suppose we are all children in your eyes.”

“Nay,” he negated swiftly, his eyes momentarily losing focus, “it is not as you suppose. Mortals are comparably young. This is unquestionable. But you are wrong. I do not see you as a child.” He continued to speak more to the air than to her, “You are adult, as adult as I.”

She studied his face; he seemed so lost in his thoughts.

“Does it surprise you to learn I am considered young amongst my people?” he asked wistfully.

She was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable, like in some way she was intruding on his private thoughts, “How can I be surprised, Master Elf?”

He turned his head to the side and she tried to shrug nonchalantly, “when I know not your age.”

“Well,” he righted his head and started to move away, “perhaps better a mystery then prosaic.”

Eryndes could have choked, “No-one could ever call you dull or plain.”

He turned his head back to her, amusement filling his eyes and she felt her face redden.

“Do not trouble yourself regarding this morning,” he said finally, “I did not believe for a moment your young friend spoke your heart.”

“No?”

Sindar chortled smoothly, “Not when you appeared ready to strike him. Indeed I was waiting to see who would strike first; you or Laeron.”

Eryndes almost smiled at his obvious jest, she wanted too, but refused. Not on that day. “Bregol learnt a valuable lesson today, but I am still very sorry for the insult he offered. I hope his behaviour does not reflect badly upon your impression of us.”

When Sindar did not answer but continued his unwavering stare, she shuffled a little nervously under deluge of his unblinking eyes, her hands absentmindedly seeking the comfort of a bunch of greenery from the table.

“I was unaware it was your friend who was slain,” he said finally.

Her breath caught in her throat, and she had to fight against the impulse to cry, “In a community this small, everyone knows everyone; every death is felt by all.”

“I understand this.”

“Yes, I imagine you must have attended more than your share of funerals, each equally as sad as another.”

“Not all equally.”

Her mouth dropped as did her stomach, wishing she’d never foolishly spoken, struggling to find something to say, anything, _anything_ to excuse her inquiry.

Anything to ease the haunting pain she’d seen flash momentarily in his eyes.

But just as quickly as it came, it’d gone; Sindar simply lifted his chin and the pain vanished. “You should take better care of your possessions,” he said suddenly and dug something out from his belt.

Her gloves.

“You left these last night.”

“Oh,” she blushed again, stammering in her gratitude, “I-Thank you. I did not even think to retrieve them today.”

She took them from him, awkward for he did not react to her gratitude. “Thank you,” she repeated softly. “You are correct, I need to take better care. I am always losing my things.”

The vivid icy grey of his eyes at once resettled upon her as if coming to a great decision. “You were humming when you came in.”

“Yes?” she asked guarded, wondering if perhaps it had annoyed him.

“I do not know this song.”

His statement and the rigidity of his manner left her perplexed, “Just a song my mother taught me.”

“Would it not be better to sing out loud?”

Her confusion left her without words.

“Well?” he prompted, his mouth on the verge of smiling, “Or have you forgotten the words already?”

And for the first time on that awful day, her heart lifted and she smiled.

“When all the world is a hopeless jumble

And the raindrops tumble all around

Valar opens a magic lane

 

When all the clouds darken up the skyway

There's a rainbow cart-way to be found

Leading from your window pane

To a place behind the sun, just a step beyond the rain

 

Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high

There's a land that I heard of once in a lullaby

Somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue

And the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true

 

Someday day I'll wish upon a star

And wake up where the clouds are far behind me

Where troubles melt like lemon drops

Away above the mountain tops, that's where you'll find me

 

Somewhere over the rainbow, bluebirds fly

Birds fly over the rainbow, why, then oh, why can't I?

 

If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow

                                                                                                                     Why, oh why can't I?”


	8. Standing Fast - Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Five - Part Two

  


**Part Two**

 

“I saw you in the hall just now.”

Eryndes looked up from her task to see Lobordir standing over her, “Joust?” She was sitting at one of the tables out in the elbow of the manor, under the shade of the great cherry tree. After she’d excused herself from Sindar, she’d taken to the task of de-skinning potatoes. It was a little early for supper preparations, but she didn’t mind. This day was filled with far too many sorrows and surprises that left her yearning for a simple task to set her mind too.

“There was a time when I would’ve paid a king’s ransom to have you sing for me.”

Weary from lack of sleep and grief, she had not the countenance to fight anymore. “Joust,” she lamented quietly looking up into the handsome face of her childhood friend. “You will never forgive me?”

Joust let out a long breath but then smiled, “I was teasing. Well, not entirely. I think I still have a right to be jealous though; it was a nice song.”

She had sung one of her mother’s lullabies; one she used to sing to her when she was a child when she was frightened or sad.

Holding tightly against the need to smile, she was glad Sindar seemed pleased with the song as well. “There is no need for jealousy. He asked what I was humming.” She returned her eyes to the potatoes. “You used to do the same.”

Lobordir didn’t reply.

“I will not quarrel anymore, Joust,” she looked back up at him. “Dissolve our friendship if you will, but if you are looking for a fight, I will disappoint you,” dropping her eyes back to the table, she muttered, “again.”

The noise across from the table told her he’d sat down heavily. He was a big man. “I didn’t come to quarrel. But to make peace.”

Surprised, she dropped her labours and sat back to stare at him, “Oh?”

“Not off to a great start, am I?” he chuckled suddenly, but then shook his head, “We lost Langwen. How can we continue to be at odds with each other when the number of our dearest friends grow thinner? So, I’ve come to apologise.”

“Why?” An old sting burned its way onto her tongue, “It was not you who broke your heart.”

Lobordir sat unmoving, a knowing look on his handsome face, “No, you did. But I’m through blaming you.”

The sting of his words spoken over the past year faded a little. “I am sorry,” she admitted quietly, “I wanted to fall in love with you, if there was anyone here who I should have fallen in love with-”

“Don’t,” he ordered sternly, but reached over to take her hand, “You don’t need to say it. It didn’t work but was worth the try. I would’ve regretted not trying more than not at all. And while I can never say I wasn’t heartbroken, it doesn’t hurt as much as it once did.” He smiled, “As they say, time heals and all.”

Sadly, she returned his smile.

“Come, let’s talk no more of this. I for one am sick of being sore at you.” He sobered, “And with Langwen gone, who else can I rely on to stop me from drowning myself in the horse troughs when I drink too much?”

Eryndes swallowed against the need for tears and forced a smile, “Do you remember what she told Thalion when he proposed to her?”

His eyes lit up and recited without hesitation, “‘How can I marry a man who drops a blood-soaked stag carcass at my door and calls it romantic?’”

Eryndes nodded. Thalion, Eryndes’ only brother, had not been one for words or romantic gestures, “Word for word.”

“Thalion had no idea of how to be charming. Took after your mother. Your father was the romantic.”

The corner of her mouth upturned, momentarily lost in memory, “I remember.”

“Thalion held no grudge though, when Langwen chose Amdirbarad instead-” Lobordir shook his head in sudden comprehension, “I held no true grudge, Eryndes, only hurt and sorrow which little by little fades every day. You’ve known me most of my life, have I ever been one to hold a grudge?”

“Not that I can recall,” she admitted. “Accept this past year.”

He gave a nod, “And I’m sorry for it. Can’t we be friends again?”

“We can,” she lightly tossed a potato at him, which he caught easily, “if you help.”

He snorted, tossing the potato back to her with a laugh, “That’s women’s work.”

It was an old joke between them, demanding the proud man to do chores he thought beneath him, but it did serve to break the uncomfortable moment.

“Here’s something that may cheer you up. Well, cheers me up anyhow,” he crossed his long arms over his chest.

She looked at him curiously, “Oh?”

He gestured to the left with his eyes.

She gradually turned, casually moving her eyes over the groups of people gathering around them as the end of day drew closer. Her eyes bounced between all of them, trying to figure out what he was talking about. She started to shake her head, but then saw Sindar standing with the young girl, Baineth.

“By my reckoning, I’m admired again,” he said smugly.

“Did you not always admire yourself, Joust?” she countered teasingly, still watching Sindar talking quietly with the girl.

He laughed, “Yes and for good reason.”

“And Baineth shares this reason?”

“She may.”

Returning back to her work, she kept her eyes low, “Seems she may be admiring another at present.”

“Sindar? No, he’d be just being polite. And she’s trying to make me jealous.”

“Is it working?”

“Not in the least,” he said smugly, “she’d do better to go make smiles with Faron then with Sindar. He’s not swayed by the charms of young maids.”

“I wonder what does sway him?”

“Oh?” His question made her realise she’d spoken her wondering out loud.

Eryndes saw the wagging of Joust’s eyebrow in the corner of her eye, “Put away that face, I was only curious.”

“You and half the women in Carthal.”

“Whatever for? What would an Eldar see in one of us?” she dubiously asked. “I simply meant he is so recluse, but then will surprise you.” She shifted in her seat, “It is hard to know how to speak to him.”

“I haven’t found that at all,” he told her flatly, “Maybe he’s just shy or selective of his friends. Doesn’t strike me as the type to go in for all the gossips and smarmy women looking for a cute hand to hold.”

Dropping the knife and potatoes, she decided to let out her curiosity, “You are his friend?”

Lobordir shrugged, “I count myself lucky to be, yes. Why?”

She pursed her lips and spoke quietly, “Just something Aragorn said to me, about him being noble-born and I thought-”

“-he’s unfriendly to those he considers common-folk?” he finished for her.

She thought of his words the other morning in the kitchen, “Yes.”

“Utter nonsense,” he rolled his eyes impolitely.

Taken aback by the sheer vehemence of his rebuke, she folded her arms across her chest and challenged, “What makes you so certain?”

“Perhaps I know him better than you? Just how I know if he’d heard you just now, he really would be offended.”

Eryndes chewed her cheek, “Then I truly do not understand. I try to be courteous-”

“Instead of being courteous, why don't you simply try talking? I get the feeling you'd get further.”

“Surely he would consider that presumptuous,” she bit out, but the nagging in her gut told her she was being ungenerous, wrong. 

“Hold on, you think he considers you beneath his regard?” Joust sat back and narrowed his eyes, “Where’d you get an idea like that?”

“How about his refusal to allow me to call him Sindar?”

“Truly?” He shrugged his shoulders, “Odd, I'll grant but then elves are known to be superstitious about names. Magics and so forth. Perhaps it's a good thing, I mean, Sindar, it’s not his real name.”

“But only I! He is not bothered with others calling him thusly.”

Lobordir simply shrugged dramatically again.

“You are no help.”

He laughed his deep throated laughs.

“Do you know-”

“What his real name is? Even if I did, it’s not my secret to tell.”

For a moment Eryndes sat still, considering. “He is a contradiction; one minute haughty, condescending, then the next amiable and,” she stilled her lips to hold back a smile, “kind.”

“Don’t fall too hard on that crush.”

She gave him a patient look, “You are being childish.”

He grinned cheekily, “Well, if he isn’t swayed by my future wife over there, then perhaps he prefers old maids.”

“Old maids?!” she cried, “Lobordir, you are ten years older than I!”

“Yes, but I’m not a woman,” he beamed, “I don’t have the same ‘shelf-life’.”

“So you are an old man instead,” Eryndes growled but only half-hearted; it was so good to have her friend back and argue like they’d always done.

Joust put on a good show of sulking, older or not, he was still a child, “Don’t lose your temper at me, old maid.”

“I see the two of you are speaking once more.”

Eryndes and Lobordir both looked up to find Aragorn, Camaenor, and Sindar who’d escaped Baineth, walking over to them.

“We never stopped speaking,” she told Aragorn tartly. It was the truth; mostly.

“That’s true,” Lobordir agreed.

Aragorn made a show of nodding, “No, then I must be wrong. Had to be if you’re suddenly brave enough to call my sister an ‘old maid’.”

Eryndes’ heart stopped. Had Sindar also heard their conversation? Or did Aragorn only hear the last part?

“I wouldn’t dare,” Lobordir winked at her.

“If you don’t mind?” Camaenor moved away from the table with a growl.

“Yes,” Aragorn nodded, “Vice has something he wishes to show us.”

“Oh?” Lobordir jumped to his feet and asked the blacksmith also known as Vice, “You finally finished it?”

Eryndes watched them all start to walk away, leaving her sitting alone. But then, that was okay. She was sure she’d flushed all the way down to her toes thinking Sindar might have heard their conversation.

Besides, she bore no interest in whatever Camaenor had to show them.

Sindar, though, stopped and glanced back at her. Aragorn saw the elf stop then he too looked back at her, “Coming?”

Aragorn’s question was earnest but she glanced at Camaenor, “Never mind me, you go on.”

Joust may not like holding grudges, but there were other men who did.

“Can’t say it’d interest you, but come along anyway,” Camaenor beckoned. “You know how Lobordir enjoys feminine company.”

Aragorn walked back to her and held out his hand.

Begrudgingly, she took it.

Camaenor lead them to his workshop, his craftsmen and apprentices still hard at work even during the later afternoon.

Outside there were a collection of wooden seats in a circle, made for the craftsmen when their toils demanded a brief respite away from the heat of their furnaces.

Aragorn led her to one such seat, then took the seat beside her. The others also sat and waited for Camaenor to re-emerge from his workshop.

The men, actually two men and an elf, continued their discussion on weapons and metal craft. A topic she had no opinions or thoughts to offer and so she sat quietly listening, but also thinking of Joust’s suggestion regarding Sindar.

What would she say? Or ask?

Nothing unobtrusive or out of topic came to mind, as if her mind had gone to sleep. Yet, her eyes were awake and had to be kept from straying back over at him. And when she did look at him, she found there was so much to know about him. She’d given anything to learn about his homeland, about the places he’d seen, about the life he’d lived. He said he was young amongst his people, but what did that mean? Was he one hundred or ten thousand years old?

He was a library; only she held not the right key to the door.

It didn’t matter though, for when Camaenor returned, Eryndes had no interest in drawing any attention to herself.

So she sat with them for what seemed like an eternity, trying to feign interest in listening to them talk metals, weaponry, fortifications. The different ways to fold steel.

“I never understand this fascination,” she muttered quietly, “What is so marvellous about a sharpened rod of steel with a handle.”

Her cheeks went hot when she noticed they all were staring at her, “I am sorry, I did not mean to speak aloud.”

Camaenor went just as flustered as her, “This sharpened rod of steel took me three weeks to craft!”

“I am sorry,” she offered, wishing she’d never agreed to accompany them.

“It has been folded four dozen times!”

“Sorry, I-.”

“I spent every night for a week just on the hilt.”

“I said I was sorry!” she snapped finally. Camaenor truly brought out the worst in her.

But before she could apologise, he began ranting. “Damn you women with nothing better to talk about then your sewing and needlework!”

Her jaw dropped, anger swelling within her like a caged beast and her apology forgotten, “When have I _ever_ spoken about sewing and needlework? Do not rail on me because your only interests lie in crafting heavy things to hit people with!”

Shockingly, around them the others were laughing. Even Sindar looked amused.

Camaenor, however, was not amused, “The simple mindedness of women. It’s no wonder we keep them to the kitchen or the whole world would be in chaos!” He looked closer at her, and then gestured to her face, “Would you look at your husband like that?”

“Have no doubt,” Aragorn pointed out approvingly.

Eryndes turned away from them, hiding her still seething anger, wishing she was anywhere but there.

“Then best he’d be fearless, is all I can say,” Camaenor hurled in her direction. “Eyes like that could shoot an eagle from his high perch.”

“And I couldn’t be prouder,” Aragorn affirmed loudly, his voice calm but with a hint of warning. She felt Aragorn take her hand, “No sister of mine would allow herself to be locked away in a kitchen.”

She looked back at her brother with a small appreciative smile. He squeezed her hand with a smile of his own.

Camaenor just huffed in his chair.

Beside him, Sindar reached over and took the sword from Aragorn. He looked it over, then again from the side, down the blade, and around the hilt.

Eryndes saw Camaenor sniff, “Go on, tell me about how much better your elven craftsmen would’ve done it.”

Sindar raised an eyebrow at him, “I was going to say I would have no hesitation taking this into battle, but if you prefer I can oblige.”

“You would ha?” Camaenor stumbled, flustered. “Nowhere near as pretty as those two on your back though.”

“Sharpened rods of steel need not be pretty to effectively hit people.”

Eryndes was about to retort when she saw the corner of Sindar’s mouth twitch, ever so marginally. An odd warmth erupted out from her heart.

“You are _teasing_ me, Master Elf?”

And for a blink his features softened, like they had done last night and again in the great hall earlier.  It was only momentarily though and he held the sword back out to Camaenor, “This one is well made.”

Camaenor almost choked, “Ah, well, high praise.” He waved away the sword, “Feel free to give it a try.”

“Why do you not carry a sword, Master Elf?” she asked abruptly and without thinking.

They all sort of frowned at her and surely without reason. It was a perfectly reasonable question. Far better than to ask how old he really was.

Sindar must’ve agreed for he did not hesitate in answering her, “Generally, I do not need one. Between my bow and knives, I have little trouble defeating my enemies.”

“Even against long swords?” She felt silly for asking, but it wasn’t as if she knew anything about weapons and combat.

“Of course,” he confirmed easily. “Long swords are no threat to my knives.”

“But I do not see-”

“Will you not test the sword?” Camaenor cut in suddenly, budding on impatience, “Sindar?”

“I do not need to test a sword in combat to know the make is quality, Master Blacksmith,” Sindar assured him.

“Please?”

Lobordir grinned, “I will test it against Strider.”

Camaenor didn’t even look at his friend, keeping his request directed to the elf, “Thanks, Joust, but you can put on an exhibition for Eryndes some other time. I’m asking Sindar.”

Sindar sat back, his eyes regarding the man coolly.

Camaenor sighed, and reluctantly lowered his head, “It would be an honour to have my work tested by so worthy a skill.”

Eryndes could’ve swallowed a rabbit her jaw dropped so low. If she’d not heard it herself, she would’ve refused to believe Camaenor would ever say such a thing.

Sindar didn’t share her surprise however, his cool grey eyes shifting to Aragorn.

Aragorn smiled easily, “I believe Vice desires to see me pounded. Shall we?”

“Pounded?” Eryndes asked quietly. Surely they would not let Sindar hurt Aragorn. “Pardon me, _pounded_?”

A heavy hand landed on her shoulder and a big arm across her back, “Relax,” Úrion chuckled above her ear, having come up from behind to join them. He took Aragorn’s vacated chair. “Strider and Sindar have known each other for a long time. They’ve been sparring for years. Probably was Sindar who finetuned a lot of Strider’s technique.”

“What if they injure each other?”

“Well, then it’s lucky that you’re here. Got medicines on you?” he laughed, “dressings and such?”

“Bear,” she groaned.

“Fear not, fair lady,” Joust was grinning, “this will be a good fight to watch.”

“If folk’d remain quiet enough to witness it,” Camaenor bit out pointedly.

The sound of Aragorn’s sword being unsheathed turned their attention.

Aragorn took a two hand grip, whilst Sindar was _playing_ , twirling the sword about him with his wrists. She looked to Úrion.

He chuckled, “Every sword is balanced differently. To be truly one with a sword, first you must get a feel for it.”

Sindar dropped the blade down low to his side, the point almost reaching the dirt at a forty-five degree angle to the ground. He gave a single nod, “Attack.”

The three men continued to commentate, but Eryndes didn’t hear a word of it. She sat frozen, half in terror. She’d often seen rangers spar, but this was different. Both their swords moved about  as if they were their own masters, flying through the air to attack and defend with frightening speed. Aragorn and Sindar whirled and spun around one another, ducking and dancing, stepping and striding. It was almost beautiful, if it was not so dangerous and terrifying.

What if one of them missed or failed to deflect?

Her hand twisted in her lap, begging for them to stop.

A long, awful clang vibrated through the air and Aragorn’s sword flew through the air to land behind him. Sindar held up his blade with ease at his friend’s chest with a small smile.

“Thought I had you for a moment,” Aragorn inclined his head, “I yield.”

“Yes, I could see you thought so,” Sindar lowered his blade, “I hope I have proven the quality of your craft?”

“In your debt,” Camaenor actually smiled, “you honour me.”

Frowning, astounded by Camaenor’s change of character towards Sindar, she shook her head and wondered, “And you can do the same with knives? Against a long sword?”

A wry smirk grew on his lips, “I have been so challenged. Camaenor?”

“Challenged?” she gasped. Had she really spoken so loud? “I did not mean, no please, do not fight again.”

“It’s sparring,” Camaenor told her, getting up from his seat and walked over to Sindar. “This is how warriors train.” They spoke quietly for a moment, probably praising the craftsmanship, then he took the sword back from Sindar and returned to them.

“This will not end well for me, sister,” Aragorn snorted in mirth, “I am betrayed.”

Eryndes swallowed, wishing to remind him she didn’t actually mean to issue any challenge but then a part of her did actually want to see.

Sindar drew his twin blades from his back with deliberate languish and then twirled them around his wrists.

“Why?” she looked at the others. “What does he mean?”

“Sindar told me,” Lobordir waved at the sword in Camaenor’s lap, “he doesn’t care much for long swords. He prefers blades in close combat.”

“Because of the weight?”

Lobordir gave a small laugh, “Nay, elves are stronger than men.”

“Attack,” they heard Aragorn call.

Without a moment’s procrastination, Sindar launched, leaping like a cat through the air, his blades like talons extended towards Aragorn. Aragorn was forced back, retreating from the onslaught.

“Because long swords don’t move the way he can.”

With terrifying speed, Sindar and Aragorn crossed blades, the clanging somewhat muter than she’d expected. Aragorn defended but the elf was quicker.

“Most elves prefer curved blades, like extensions of their own bodies, to accommodate their fluidic movement,” someone said, she couldn’t spare the mind to decipher who she was so stunned.

“Can you make them stop?” she whispered to no one in particular. It was frightening. “Please? Make them stop?”

No one did.

Eryndes gasped, ready to sprint over there to stop them. She felt a hand upon hers.

Úrion shook his head with a calm smile.

Sindar struck and struck and struck with terrifying speed, Aragorn barely meeting his blows. Blow after blow, until there was an awful clang and Aragorn’s sword once more fell hard to the ground, only this time so did Aragorn.

It had been over so quickly.

Sindar stood over him, his blades merely two inches from his friend’s throat.

Aragorn was smiling. Sindar’s deadly serious face looked upon his downed prey, but then abruptly smirked.

“I yield,” Aragorn chuckled, “as always, melloneg (my friend).”

Sindar held out his hand and Aragorn took it, allowing the elf to pull him back to his feet. Still grinning, Aragorn took Sindar’s shoulder, Sindar taking Aragorn’s.

Eryndes breathed a sigh of relief, her hand over her mouth and tried to calm her heart.

“You see?” Camaenor scoffed unkindly, “nothing for you to fret over.”

When they parted, Aragorn turned back to the group, “I have a thought, Sindar, of how to regain my pride and exact revenge.”

The elf raised his brow in amusement, “How so?”

Aragorn looked directly at her, “Should not the challenger stand up for the challenge?”

All the blood left her face. “What do you mean?” she asked warily.

Aragorn walked straight over to her and pulled her to her feet.

“What are-?”

He thrust the hilt of his sword into her hands, the sword was so heavy the tip fell into the dirt.

“Aragorn?”

He took her waist, pulling her towards the clearing, the top of the sword digging a line in the dirt, “Come, sister, you must defend our family honour.”

“Aragorn?” she tried to pull away, but he gently stopped her.

He set her two metres from Sindar and pulled the sword up, “Hold it here.”

The sword tip fell back to the ground, “Please, Aragorn, you cannot be serious.”

“I am serious. I command you to stay and stand up to the challenge,” Aragorn chuckled, “What do you think, Sindar? Will she offer you a fair match? Will she be your undoing?” He walked back to the others, leaving Eryndes standing in front of the elite elven warrior, armed with two very wicked looking knives, while Aragorn’s sword rested against  the palms of her hands rather than she try lift it.

Terrified he might actually attack her, she hesitated to glance at Sindar.

Sindar, though, was not looking at her, but at Aragorn, his face bland and for a moment she wondered if he was insulted by the suggestion, or simply unamused.

“Strider, you think Sindar will offer her a free strike?” called out Joust.

Sindar swept his blink-less eyes to her and at once she felt naked, like a poor defenceless animal tethered to the ground before a wolf.

After what she’d seen him do to Aragorn, who was by her count the very best warrior of all the rangers, wolf was a fairly apt description.

The _wolf_ watched her, but then relaxed his posture and threw his hands up, sliding his knives back into their scabbard. “I yield,” he walked up to her, “like the eagle felled from his high perch, I too am defeated.”

_Defeated?_ She wanted to ask but was speechless. _Defeated?_ Was that a tease? The whole thing was ridiculous. Why had he not simply ripped the blade from her shaking hands and declared himself victor?

Sindar stopped in front of her and inclined his head with a wry smile in his eyes, “Your bother is clever and the honour is yours.” Taking the heavy sword from her like it weighed no more than a paring knife, he waved her forth and together they walked back to the circle of men sitting in their wooden chairs.

 “Well, played Strider,” Úrion chuckled.

“Those eyes of yours must truly be unconquerable,” Camaenor sniggered.

“Truly,” she heard Sindar quietly.

The elf wasn’t looking at her and opening her mouth, she was going to ask what he meant by that -

Abruptly Aragorn pulled her into his arms, “My hero.” He looked to the others, “Are there any other challengers? No? Then I must declare Eryndes the undefeated champion of Carthal.”

Pulling herself out of Aragorn’s embrace, she sat back down with a huff, “Yes, very amusing. You all had your fun.”

Grinning, Aragorn sat down next to her and took his sword back from Sindar. “You cannot tell me it wasn’t fun to defeat an elven elite in combat?”

Eryndes looked again at Sindar and found he was waiting for her answer. “I did no such thing.”

His dark brow rose and she felt tingles break out down both her arms. Tugging her eyes away from his, she instead watched Aragorn re-sheath his sword.

Staring at hilt sticking out from her brothers belt, she shook her head, “It is astounding to think how anyone could fight the way you do with something so heavy.”

“We grow stronger,” Aragorn told her, “As could you, if you wished it.”

“Strength is not necessary.”

Eryndes looked back to Sindar, as did Aragorn and the others.

“So says the strongest amongst us,” Úrion, the burliest amongst the men, taunted pleasantly, pulling out a pipe and tobacco pouch.

Sindar shrugged, “A mithril blade does not require strength to lift.”

All the men either sniggered or coughed and Eryndes looked to them confused.

“Though I’d dearly love to gift my sister with a mithril blade,” Aragorn shook his head, “I do lack the hoards of gold to pay for it.”

Sindar looked unperturbed.

Uncomfortable with her ignorance, she asked, “What is so special about this _mithril_?”

“You’re not serious? Women!” Camaenor rolled his eyes, “They call it silver-steel. Beautiful as silver but weighs next to nothing.”

“Forgive me, _Vice_ ,” she returned, struggling to maintain her civil tongue when faced with his constant condescension, “With the abundance of precious metals in these lands, I guess I get them confused.”

Camaenor levelled a glare at her.

Lobordir laughed, “Have you even seen mithril yourself?”

Camaenor didn’t answer.

“Who amongst us has?” Úrion added.

The sound of a blade being drawn from its scabbard drew Eryndes’ attention. Sindar held one of his knives in his hand.

Meeting her gaze, he held out the handle to her.

After the slightest moment of hesitation, she took it from him. It was impossibly light. The blade was long and flowing just like a tall grass blade, bent to a gentle breeze. It was beautifully patterned with gold and lovely handles of white, also etched with gold.

“It is beautiful,” she whispered, her hands feeling completely unworthy to hold such a wonder. And if this was mithril, then as Aragorn said, worth a _fortune_. She’d never held a fortune in her hands before.

“Thank you.”

“Does the lightness make fighting easier?” she asked, feeling the others leaning in and around her for a look.

“If anything, the lack of weight makes them more troublesome to first master.”

She tore her gaze from the beauty in her hands, “but then-?”

“Mithril is extremely rare and undoubtedly fair to look upon, but it is the hardness of the steel which accounts for the excessive value. These knives will not break, bend or bow,” Sindar explained patiently, a sharp contrast to Camaenor’s acid tongue, “The edge is capable of staying sharp longer against armour and although the blades are not wide, they will still easily slice through bone just as through flesh.”

Studying the gold etching again, she mused aloud, “Hard to believe something so beautiful could be so deadly.”

Aragorn chuckled from beside her, and said wistfully, “The very contradictory nature of elves.”

“Were these made in Lasgalen?” she asked.

A slow smile touched his lips, “By one of our master craftsmen.”

Taking in the delicate beauty of his smile, she wondered, “They were a gift?”

His head tilted ever so marginally in thoughtful regard. His smile grew, “Indeed they were.”

“Don’t let her hold too long, Sindar, or she’ll soon be chopping vegetables and herbs with it and you’ll never see it again.”

Sindar’s face dropped and suddenly cold eyes shot to Camaenor, a crease forming between his brows, but he did not speak.

Eryndes released the lip she bit in response to Camaenor’s continued public mockery of her. Privately, she could somewhat endure it better, but in front of her brother, their friends, and in front of Sindar; it smarted. A lot.

Making sure her smile to Sindar was as equally sincere as it felt in her heart, she carefully handed back the knife, “Thank you for allowing me to see.”

With an impassive nod he accepted back the knife and slid it back into its scabbard with astonishing ease.

Eyeing the scabbard, “Have you ever-?” she stopped, blood rushing to her cheeks.

“Have I ever?” Sindar coaxed invitingly, his face returning amiable as it had been before Camaenor’s interruption.

Eryndes, however, burned in embarrassment realising the sheer ridiculousness of her question. She’d spoken without thought and felt like slapping herself or branding her own traitorous tongue. Unfortunately, with half of the question already spoken, and Sindar waiting- “The way you do that, how is it you do not,” her chest tightened, “cut off your hair?”

Her companions chortled loudly.

Sindar also was amused, but he didn’t laugh. “I did once,” his face softened and broke into a smile once more, “when I was but a child and under the tutelage of my master. My father did not know who to punish more, me or my teacher.”

“You did?” Aragorn laughed in surprise. “You never told me.”

Sindar’s gaze flicked to his friend, “You never asked.”

“And,” her muscles slackening in relief that her silly question had not turned out so silly after all, “whom did your father punish more?”

“Me,” he said dryly.

Grinning, a sharp thrill resonated through her. Perhaps Joust had been right; all she need do was try. “And how were you punished?”

“Sindar?” A young male voice called.

They all looked to the young ranger, Baradon, walking over to them from the direction of the manor.

“Everything’s set as you requested.”

Sindar nodded and rose to his feet, “Thank you, Baradon.”

The four men also stood.

“Good hunting, Sindar,” Úrion took his shoulder in an elvish fashion, Sindar reciprocating.

Joust shook his hand, “Be safe, my friend.”

Vice nodded to him, “Good luck.”

Eryndes watched them uneasily. Was he leaving them? Surely not.

Slowly rising to her feet, her stomach fluttered as she continued to watch their farewells.

Aragorn took Sindar’s shoulder as Úrion had done, the elf doing the same, “Berio gin Eru, melloneg (May Eru protect you, my friend).” 

“Gin eithro, melloneg (And you, my friend).”

Eryndes swallowed, “Are you leaving us, Master Elf?”

Sindar turned to her, “I shall return in two weeks.”

Too stunned to speak, she watched him incline his head to her then left, walking back towards the manor with Baradon.

“Where,” she stammered, “where is he going?”

“Angmar.”

Whirling around, she stared in shock at her brother, “ _Angmar_?”

“Your friend Bregol was not wrong when he said we couldn’t stand by when our families are being attacked,” Joust explained, pointing to the departing figure that was Sindar, “last night Sindar offered to go out there and scout out the enemy.”

“Last night?” she frowned, but that was even before the meeting in the war-room. Bregol’s verbal attack against Sindar slammed back into her mind.

Sindar had not said one word; not one word in his defence.

“Deep reconnaissance into enemy territory,” Úrion retook his seat a sigh worthy of a much older man, “He’s going to find out what they’re up to.”

“Alone?” she gasped in disbelief.

Aragorn nodded, “Alone. I offered to go with him but he declined, bidding me to train our own scouts while he’s gone. By the time he returns we shall have more rangers out there keeping an eye on the enemy.”

By the time he returns? Eryndes watched Sindar’s tall proud stature turn the corner to the west side of the manor and leave her sight. Angmar? A suffocating dread filled her chest. What if he did not return?

She was just beginning to like the elf.

 


	9. Easing the Load

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While apologising for the lack of updates lately, I'd also like to apologise to those expecting three chapters. I am sorry. Been a tough couple of months but I AM still working hard to get more done.
> 
> * Thanks to all those who liked, kudos, commented and reviewed.  
> ** Thanks again to my wonderful beta Frannel.  
> *** Again, Sindarin translations expertly done by Dreamingfifi of realelvish .net  
> **** I am NO poet, so please forgive my attempt.

* * *

 

_Dramatis Personæ_

Aglarebon – Woodland Stallion, Sindar's mount

Aragorn/Strider – Male, Chieftain of the Dúnedain

Baradon/Sculls – Male, Ranger

Bregol/Web - Male, Ranger

Camaenor/Vice - Male, Master of Arms

Eryndes – Female, Mistress of Carthal & Apothecary

Geledir - Male, Master of Livestock

Gueniel – Female, Midwife

Laeron/Wren – Male, Ranger

Lobordir/Joust – Male, Master of Stables

Mydedis – Female, Mistress of Housekeeping

Nestdôl – Male, Master of Healing

Sali – Female, Mistress of Kitchen

Sindar/Master Elf /Legolas – Sinda Male, undisclosed Prince of the Woodland Realm on unofficial secondment

Úrion/Bear – Male, Second in Command

 

* * *

 

Summer in the _Lost Wilderness_ was much the same as it was down on the Carthal flats; hot sun beating down upon the earth without a single cloud offering shelter. Up there in the foothills of the northernmost end of the Misty Mountains, where the land was broken by rivers and small lakes, the air resonated vibrantly to the beat of the natural world.  The drone of insects filled the stagnant heat of a breezeless day, only broken by the songs of sleepy birds and the occasional plop from fish ducking up from the swift moving river to snack on the gnats and flies.  

The abundance of life amongst the rocky hillsides paid no mind to the tall white stallion or his master, quietly making their way up the steep stony deer track to the top of the bluff. A cautious glance from the rodents and birds still bravely awake in the heat of the early afternoon was enough to convince them the intruders posed no threat and contently ignored them.

Taking the deer track up to the top was not as much for camouflage but indeed for lack of any others leading to the top of the bluff. Legolas dismounted earlier to ease his friend’s burden up the track of loose stones, and aided where he could by holding tree branches out of Aglarebon’s face or offering murmurs of encouragement. Aglarebon was still young and quite inexperienced in dry, hot rocky hills and pebbly steep tracks. Having never before ventured passed the lands of Lasgalen there was much of the outside world Legolas had to teach him.

Even so, Aglarebon was breed for intelligence just as much as he was for speed and endurance; with a little patient encouragement and a firm guiding hand he would learn these lessons well.

The area chosen for their brief respite after four days on the orcs trail offered plentiful cover from both the sky and the surrounds whilst not obstructing the fine panorama of the south-east. Although not even the eyes of Legolas could see Carthal from a slip over two hundred miles, it was still strangely comforting to gaze in its direction. Predicting the next week was going to be spent within the borders of the enemy, the view was welcomed. It gave him peace to know Carthal was there and there it would remain waiting for his return.

Perhaps in the four days since quitting the Dúnedain stronghold, Legolas came to realise residing there had not been so bad after-all. In the days after Aragorn coaxed him into being more sociable, more accepting of those he considered odd, the folk lost much of their wariness around him. Indeed he could now claim a handful of budding friendships, not only with Carthal’s leadership but also with its common-folk, and would be glad to return to be amongst them once more. They were still odd, boisterous, and sometimes petty in their gossips, but it was these people Legolas had come to find . . . interesting. Amusing even.

He could not forget either that in departing Carthal, Legolas had left _something_ perplexing unfinished.

With an unsettled sigh, he pulled his thoughts back to the present and held Aglarebon to a halt. “Posto hí (Rest here),” he muttered quietly and went about unbuckling the saddle and sliding off the bridle. “Ídhron vant (I am hungry).”

Kneeling among the large slate rocks and tufts of spiny grass, Legolas set about taking an inventory; setting aside those few things required for Angmar and leaving the rest in the saddle pack. The provisions packed were substantial for the time expected to complete the mission but a learned warrior didn’t use each day's ration freely. There was always the chance of being held up, sent off course, and chased by the enemy. And although he could hunt for his dinner, bloody raw meat didn’t settle in his stomach well, if he could get it passed his lips and only a fool would light a fire so close to Angmar.

Finishing halving the remaining supplies, he re-tied the larger bag and stuffed it back into the saddle pack.

Picking up the saddle and Aglarebon’s bridle, Legolas took notice of the features around him and chose the spot beneath the leafy thorns of a bush. There he carefully gathered leaves, thorns, rocks and pebbles and buried his belongings under his makeshift camouflage. Standing back, he surveyed his work and when satisfied he went back to sit down next to Aglarebon, who was busy filling his belly with what grass was about in the secluded little clearing.

This night he would indulge in a substantial meal. Pulling the drawstring, he snuck his hand in to find something more than the mere morsels he’d eaten over the past couple days to ease the growing hunger in his belly. Pulling a large chunk of dried beef and unwrapping it, his eyes once more wandered to the view of the southeast. His thoughts never seemed to drift very far to past its high stone walls.

There was much he’d left behind.

The seldom seen look of rage on his friend’s usually calm face the night Langwen was slain . . .

_“Why did you bring her?”_

_Legolas faced Aragorn’s fury calmly, “We needed a second healer.”_

_“She is my sister!”_

_He gave a nod and said plainly, “And a capable healer.”_

_Aragorn’s fist clenched, and the hot rage in his eyes spoke of his desire to strike, “You do not invite my sister into danger!”_

_Legolas continued to face his friend without emotion, waiting._

_Just as he knew, Aragorn took a long breath and turned away, his hands releasing their hostile intent. It was not often Aragorn lost his temper to anyone and practically never with him. Legolas knew his friend well  however and knew Aragorn’s  loss of temper would not endure; he need only wait._ _“I did no such thing,” he affirmed evenly, “She offered and there was no better option-”_

_“No better option? She tried to go off to seek the boy against orders and then fainted on the return journey.”_

_That struck him. Surely Aragorn would not be so blind and Legolas’ watched at him doubtfully, “I do not believe you give due credit. Praise is what this night demands, not ridicule. For one who does not know war as we do, I believe she held up well enough. We both have seen trained soldiers run in terror-”_

_“Well enough? Maybe if you had a sister of your own you would not be so keen to place her into danger!”_

_“I did not place her in danger,” he recounted tartly. “She is already in danger; everyday she resides here, in this place-”_

_“Was she your sister, you would have allowed her to go?”_

_“Were she my,” he stopped and shook his head, “my family, I would scarcely allow her to live within five hundred leagues of Carthal Manor.”_

_Aragorn’s response was a hardening of his face, his eyes widening once more in fury._

_“You cannot censure me for having accepted her offer,” Legolas stepped in closer to his friend, schooling his posture and tone to one of infinite patience and serenity; a trick he’d learned from his years at his father’s knee. “My decision was based in logic, giving no quarter to emotion or the sexism of mortals.”_

_“Yes,” Aragorn snapped, “it has always been so very easy for you to excuse yourself from emotion.”_

_Legolas recoiled but steeling himself against the sting, reminded himself it was only Aragorn’s anger speaking, “I will not answer that challenge since we both know you speak without belief. My wish was anything but to accept but I do what I must when lives are at risk. As would you, when it is your choice to make.”_

_“I would send one I loved into danger?”_

_“Indeed,” he confirmed resolutely, “if it were the correct choice.” He softened his features and looked upon his friend with great affection, “Aragorn, this your fears are playing on your mind; your anger is not for me, but for yourself.”_

_“My fears?”_

_“When you are not here, who tells her not to go with the rangers? Digs out carts? Orders her to rest from over dedication to duty? Or carries her when she faints? Holds her hand when her people are slain-?”_

_“Enough,” Aragorn dropped himself down heavily into a chair. “I know I can’t control what she does when I am not here.”_

_“So you overcompensate when you are here? What I do not understand is not the fear of losing those you love but the time spent in quarrel whilst you are here. She loves you. Why do you favour her with your spite?”_

_“I do no such thing-“_

_“Aragorn,” Legolas interjected firmly, something he had rarely done in their sixty year friendship. Not since their first few years of friendship, enduring the turbulent change from nothing more than a youth to a man had Legolas been often required to be so firm._

_His friend sighed then bowed his head, “You are right, aren’t you? It’s not you I’m angry at. Not entirely. Am I not even angry at her?” He rubbed his face, “My anger and fear blinds me.”_

_Legolas sat down opposite him, “You often speak of your great fortune in love. Yet do you not see that in concentrating on protection and forsaking all other regards will only serve to injure those who love you?”_

_Aragorn studied him, “You speak of Arwen too, do you not?”_

_“I speak of Arwen, yes, and Eryndes. Even your friends.” Legolas swallowed against the sudden hollowness sickening his stomach, “You are indeed fortunate, my friend. I would not see you harm such fortune because of your fears.”_

_Aragorn’s head came up and he sat up straight, “Perhaps I have been too harsh. You see things so much clearer than I.”_

_“Do I not always?” Legolas said smugly but also to chase away his own envy bubbling in his veins. For a mortal man bereft of crown and riches, Aragorn was far wealthier than Legolas had ever been._

_Aragorn grinned, “I am grateful for your council, even if it comes coloured with pure vanity.”_

_“A vanity well earned,” he told him proudly._

_“I always thought it came to you by inheritance.”_

_“Watch your tongue,” Legolas warned with a playful smirk. Aragorn’s tease was a welcome sight, proving his anger had indeed passed._

_Aragorn stood with an easy posture and his good nature returning to his face, “Would you cut out your brother’s tongue?”_

_“I am your elder,” he pointed out and then said with mirth, “I will endure your foolery as always.”_

_Aragorn took his shoulder, “Between your temper and my foolery as you call it, I believe it is I who more often bears the sharper blade.”_

_“Go to bed, Aragorn,” Legolas pushed him away with a snigger, “You are speaking nonsense.”_

_Mockingly, his friend bowed his head, “As you wish, my elder lord,” then grinned broadly at Legolas’ glower as he left the room._

_But then Legolas smiled freely once he was alone. Aragorn was probably right. Legolas’ passionate temper was legendary and there were so few like Aragorn who’d willingly endure it._

_Walking through the great hall towards the kitchen, Legolas was not inclined to take a rest yet and fancied a cup of the Dúnedain tea. The hour was very late and he was surprised to see a few folk still loitering. Many were speaking the tale of rangers’ flight through the darkness, others spoke of their sorrow and grief for the friends lost._

_But one in particular caught his attention and his boots came to a sharp stop on the well-worn wooden floor._

_Staring out into nothingness with dim eyes, Eryndes sat in front of the fire, having not moved since he and Aragorn had placed her there after she’d passed out._

_Though he’d sought to distance himself from her unsettling influence upon him, it wasn’t in his constitution to walk on and leave her to her misery. Even the threat of his awkwardness wasn’t enough to hold him back._

_The sadness in her eyes shouted at him. He could not bear witness to it and do nothing._

_Sparing but a moment to collect a blanket from one of the supply cupboards, he calmed his breath and bade his tongue be civil._

_Then walked over to her . . ._

Fingers unexpectedly brushing paper, he carefully drew out a small parcel in waxed paper tied with coarse twine from the bag. Turning it over he found a note threaded through the twine. Pulling out the note his heart swelled, the muscles in his face twitching until finally giving into a broad smile.

Scrawled neatly in lead the note simply read, ‘A token honeywell to lighten spirits.’

With exaggerated care, Legolas untied the twine and opened one end of the paper to peek inside.

He broke into a quiet chuckle taking one of the six ginger-snap biscuits stacked neatly inside the waxed parcel.

Sitting back against the rock, he took an appreciative bite, feeling the sweet warming taste on his tongue and lightening his mood.

“Hiril vell (Beloved lady),” he grinned taking another bite. Just how did Foruyndes get inside his provisions bag? How did she even know of his mission? Before they could try to appease the enraged rangers everyone became preoccupied with the funeral for Langwen’s family.

Popping the last of the biscuit into his mouth, Legolas took another from the wax paper parcel and sat back to gaze into the coming night sky. There truly were disadvantages for being a lone elf living amongst humans. And yet humans constantly struck him with their unexpected ways and sometimes had an odd way of making him feel . . . . valued in an unassuming and honest way.

Amongst his people he was loved, adored even, revered by elders more than three times his years, but never felt truly earned when such favour was given since his birth.

Once Legolas would have dismissed the idea of human friendship as futile; so fleeting were their lives in comparison to his, how long could a friendship last? Was it truly worth the effort?

Aragorn had changed many of his more conceited ideas about humans. In the last sixty years he’d come to discover how much more the mortals lived. Each one of their limited days was lived more than an elf lived in a month.

None seemed to live like humans did and he came to admire them greatly for their zest and even envied them a little.

What vibrancy, what spirit to be found in those doomed to die!

Yet they revered the Eldar?

Legolas sat back with a shake of his head. Elves could be named stones by comparison; surrounded by light and warmth they could glow and sparkle like gems, but most often mortals found elves to be cold, unmoving, taking eons to change.

And like a stone placed snugly by a fire, Legolas was too becoming warmed by his proximity to them. Touching his lips, sweeping away any small crumbs from his gift, he remembered those of them who often offered kindness and friendship despite Legolas’ differences. They did not seem to mind accepting him as he was, and the ones like Foruyndes who took him in like a lost elk-calf?

A smile tugged at his lips and he brushed off the imaginary crumbs from his jerkin, remembering their last conversation . . .

_Upon seeing Eryndes off to bed after her ordeal, Legolas had continued on his way to the kitchen._

_Foruyndes was by the fire at the back of the kitchen, sitting down on the one of the two rocking chairs and attending to her twisted wool and needles. Upon seeing him, she set down her work and went to make them tea just as she had done for the past two nights. “A difficult night,” she lamented softly._

_He agreed but did not speak. Instead he took the seat opposite hers and waited for her._

_“You are pensive this evening, my dear Sindar.”_

_Legolas turned away from the golden glow of the fire long burnt down to mere coals, and took the mug of hot tea from his new friend, “Thank you, Foruyndes.”_

_“I said you are pensive,” she reminded, taking the armchair opposite him, easing her aged body down gratefully._

_“I heard.”_

_“Did you know the family well?”_

_“Not well, no.” He added, “but I sympathise with the loss.”_

_Foruyndes didn’t speak and Legolas continued to watch the fire, taking the occasional sip from his tea. Jasmine tea. He would’ve preferred uruilas._

_“You’re not in love are you?”_

_Before Legolas could even begin to rebuff her ridiculous suggestion, she waved it away, “No, of course not. Who’d be a good match for an elf around here? You’re right, no-one. It’s such a pity there are none more of your kind amongst us. Yes, of course, what interest in the north would bring elves to visit when so many are already leaving Middle Earth for the fairer shores of Valinor? But I can scarcely imagine how charming it’d be to see elf-children running around the grounds.”_

_There was a certain art when speaking with Foruyndes, he mused but not unkindly. Sometimes he suspected she had entire conversations with him when he was indeed absent._

_Yet her company was pleasant and he sat quietly sipping his tea, listening for a time when he would be required to answer._

_“Well, there is Baineth. Do you not think so?”_

_He looked to her in question, “Baineth?”_

_“Oh you know her. Young, barely nineteen, always tottering around Joust? I’ve seen you speaking to her a couple times. Truly you should pay more attention to folks’ names!”_

_“Joust’s intended?” he guessed ‘somewhat’ confidently._

_“So he thinks, yes. She is very handsome, tall and very slender, much like lady-elves I’d wager. She could well pass for one, don’t you agree.”_

_“I had not thought about it,” he mused, picturing the courteous young girl who’d sought him out on occasion to practice her Sindarin. The girl was as Foruyndes said; handsome, taller than most of the other women, and indeed slender. “But, yes, perhaps she could pass for an elleth.”_

_“Yes,” Foruyndes mused, “she would be the only one. Though I don’t think I’d approve if she were my daughter. What mother wants a son older than she is?”_

_He frowned with the feeling he’d missed something, “The only one?”_

_“Who you could be in love with. Though you really shouldn’t, she’s much too young for you.”_

_Legolas spied her out of the corner of his eye, maintaining the most serious facade, “By your reckoning, who amongst the Dúnedain is not too young in comparison to me?”_

_Foruyndes lightly slapped the back of his hand, “Oh, Sindar, you tease! You know I mean age in maturity of temperament.”_

_He smirked, “So you did.”_

_The wrinkles around her eyes deepened in thought, “Truly though, I’d find it hard to believe any elf would be inclined towards mortals, even if any were fair enough to turn the head of an elf. Apart from Baineth, as I have said. The rest of us womenfolk must be so unsightly, far too shaped to be fair.” She waved her hand around for emphasis, “Circular and rounded. Ungainly. And rotund.”_

_Legolas sat back in his chair, “I do not agree. There are some whom I would call as you say, but they are still perfectly nice folk. And there are some I would also call fair,” he shrugged, “beautiful even.”_

_“Ah, but to capture the particular attention of an elf? No. Folk always prefer their own race.”_

_Legolas scoffed under his breath thinking of Aragorn. Then there had been ‘_ that’ _dwarf sixty years ago. “I do not think those in love consider race important.”_

_Foruyndes , too focused on her own thoughts, continued as if he had not spoken, “Such a pity, if only we could somehow entice more of your brethren to the north. How marvellous a sight that would be?” she lamented, her eyes dropping over to the fire, “Ho, I fear we are far too different.”_

_“I think you are too harsh on your own kind. And upon mine. Elves love from the heart, not the eye.”_

_“No, you’re right. Just too different,” she said sadly, not hearing him._

_Legolas thought about Eryndes; her sweet, kind face radiating warmth and a keen spirit shining in her eyes. Not ungainly, but effortlessly graceful. Rotund? He thought of how her dress splayed out from her petite waist, fabric fitting enough to show the lush swell of her backside, and remembered the times he’d watched hypnotised by the way her skirt shifted caressingly over her shapely figure in time to the sway of her hips._

_Tingling warmth broke out all over as he recalled the way she filled the top of her bodice, so very ‘snugly’-_

_Unsightly to an elf? Too different?_

_No. Being mortal rather than elf-kind in no way took away his . . ._ appreciation _. Her figure was . . . lovely, just as she too was, “Lovely.”_

_“What was that, Sindar?”_

_Legolas looked over his mug at Foruyndes, “Pay no mind. I was trapped in my thoughts.”_

_“Thoughts of someone lovely? Baineth, perhaps? She is the fairest here at Carthal, don’t you think? Pretty enough for a lord I reckon. Not that we have any up here in the north. It’s terribly unfair; the house of Carthal robbed of lordship.”_

_Legolas took a long sip of tea instead of answering._

_“You disagree?” she cackled smugly, “Then there is one you consider lovelier.”_

_Feeling his stomach drop, Legolas kept his eyes trained on his mug. Despite her apparent ill-mind she seemed to have remained quite clever. “I am an elf. I appreciate beauty,” he finally conceded cryptically, not willing to give anything further away._

_"And what beauty have you been appreciating lately?”_

_Keeping his face passive he quipped dryly, “Why you, lady Foruyndes. I am not too old for you I hope?”_

_Her untamed laugh was as uplifting as her cheery presence, “You’re a fine tease! Who’d ever believe a nice and polite lad like you possessed a playful talent?”_

_“I prefer to be unpredictable,” even as he said those words, his mind again wandered. Did Eryndes see him that way? With his temperament and occasional callous tongue, would he be surprised if she thought him nothing but conceited and arrogant?_

_And yet - earlier, in front of the fire in the great hall? In grief and weariness she had forgotten herself and spoke. Spoke to him as if they were just two people, unburdening her troubled mind to a willing ear._

_The ease about her put him at ease too and freed his tongue. Had they found a common ground through tragedy? Fairy-tale indeed!_

_Of course the moment had been but a moment._

_Legolas smiled to himself. But that moment, as fleeting as a snowflake on a warm breeze, had been wonderful._

_“Sindar?” he heard Foruyndes call, “I believe I’ve lost you again.”_

_Legolas hide his smile behind his mug and took another sip before answering, “Forgive me. My mind is a wandering elf tonight. You were saying . . .?”_

On impulse, Legolas snatched the paper parcel and quickly withdrew yet another biscuit. They could not accompany him any further and so he’d have to wait for the return journey before having anymore. Late that night, thereupon the moon waning, he would enter Angmar and only the blandest food could be taken; hard bread made from flour and water, a poor substitute for elvish way-breads but enough to sustain his strength for the next week. The ginger in the biscuits was delicious but far too scented not to be picked up by an orc nose.

The task of lightening his load accordingly had been a very actualising exercise and finishing the biscuit, he knew there was another load he needed to lighten. By dawn he expected to be surrounded by the ruthless rusty blades of the inhabitants of Angmar, where his wits and focus had to be maintained or pay for it with his life.

It was unwise to go into danger without a clear mind.

Only four days ago Legolas experienced the vile simmering encasing his heart; it was a feeling every elf was intimately acquainted with.

Jealously.

It had been many years since he’d felt the blinding fury and stunned recognising it whilst living in Carthal. Amongst humans no less.

There was no doubt however; when he saw them together in the gardens, her favouring Bregol with the brilliance of her smile, favouring him with the sweetness of her gratitude . . . The pettiness of his loathing for the mere boy did Legolas no credit.

Biting down hard on the biscuit and chomping violently, the ginger no longer offered any pleasure to his tongue. He was an elf, and the inclination for jealousy was a well known black mark upon the Eldar; those at risk of dying from a broken heart tended to protect theirs most vehemently.

Of course Legolas’ jealousy dissolved to a pained memory upon discovering that while the youth held undeniably keen eyes for her, his ambitions were not shared. Eryndes’ reaction to Legolas’ question truly surprised him. It never occurred to him Eryndes would consider the youth _too_ young. ‘ _A child’_ she named him.  

And the feeling in Legolas’ heart knowing this? Delight? Relief?

Vindication and the urge to crow?

It was strange to think he’d become so possessive so quickly.

And why?

He was Sinda, and the Sindar always knew their hearts. Legolas sat back, stretching out his long legs to stare up into the soft blue of the sky overhead.

After the funeral ceremony at Langwen’s farm, on happenstance he saw her gloves sitting alone in the hot sun, abandoned to the blood stained dirt of the night before.

He was not a nursemaid, or her brother, or hardly even acquainted really. It would’ve been wiser to point Aragorn to the gloves and seek distance.

Wisdom eluded him though and he’d retrieved her gloves in secret to wait for a private moment to restore them to her. Eryndes’ apology for Bregol’s insult then her gratitude for the gloves appeased his jealously injured pride; enough for him to swallow his discomfort and press her to sing for him.

A smile softened his mood once more, recounting her song and seeing the contentment on her face as she sung it. The joy he felt listening to her sing for him remained strong enough to lighten his heart all these days later.

Aragorn was right; even a tone deaf elf like Legolas could not dispute the sheer magic of her voice.

Legolas was proud, none who knew of him would dispute this regardless of the name they called him. And rightly proud for he was held in worthy comparison to the greatest elven warriors through thousands of years of battle-riddled history. So when the opportunity came to parade his skills in front of an auspicious audience, his vanity easily won and took down Aragorn far quicker than might have normally.

But he should have expected his friend not to take such a beating without recompense. Aragorn was after-all an exceedingly clever man. The heir to men or not, no man ruled over the Dúnedain for over sixty years without intelligence.

What continued to affectionately surprise Legolas was not his cleverness but the uncanny ability Aragorn had in reading _him_.

In the end Legolas had chosen to lose the honour of victory at the sacrifice of both pride and vanity. Knocking away the blade from her hands would’ve been an easy victory but cowardly brutish against a defenceless woman.

Never before had his knives felt traitorous in his hands.

‘I yield’ had been the fact of it. Legolas yielded. Yet in that moment, bowing in submission and no longer hiding behind his pride, something in him broke. That same something deep within that he’d been battling with for days and in that very moment, won.

As it did, all of the crippling tension, the defensiveness, reservation all fell away and he was left with naught but the truth he’d tried to refuse since the night of the great feast:

This woman he’d unwisely flirted with or not, Aragorn’s honour sister or not, mortal or not; he could not deny it any longer - he was drawn to her.

‘ _I yield_.’

Eryndes had not understood. Women of mortal men knew little of the powers which ruled an elf’s heart and was too blind to see the change in him.

And yet . . .

A smile crept forth yet again reliving her shy but eager curiosity warming his chest and belly. Not because she was seeking favour from the son of a king for she knew not his lineage. Nor did it stem from obligation or decorum; she’d displayed more than enough correct behaviour of a peasant to a lord since she’d greeted him the night of the feast.

Legolas felt his jaw tighten, his top lip lifting in disgust. Just thinking of her lowered eyes threatened to sour his mood once more.

But then . . . the coy smiles, freshening laughs at his jests and teases, her eager questions . . . perhaps it had not all been about rank.

Could it be instead because she found him intriguing? Though, Legolas admitted to himself, the signs of attraction amongst mortals were painfully beyond even his superior sight. He’d been wrong before.

Even more so, he was staggeringly ignorant in the manner and eloquence of courtship. What did he know of such things? How badly had he already injured her regard by his spiteful tongue? Or perhaps even worse by his silent tongue?

Legolas kicked back even further, lying with his hands under his head, pulling himself out of his thoughts to once more look up at the stars. The simple beauty never failed to shine into his soul and calm his spirits.

When life presented him nothing but pain and darkness for almost three thousand years, what would he not give for a single fleeting moment of pure happiness? To experience the fortune of love, something he’d always been secretly envious of Aragorn?

Drawing a long deep breath, Legolas knew not of what was to be done but one thing was certain; from the moment he’d admitted to this involuntary attraction, his mind and heart felt gloriously free. It was as if the dark hovering clouds had been blown soundly away to allow bright sunshine to break through once more. That or the irrepressible weight of the world was torn off his shoulders and shackles removed.

Rising to sit again, he unsheathed a knife, took out his whetstone and went about sharpening the already sharp edge, keen to lose himself in the task, all the while a sweet song sung just for him continued to hum softly in his mind.

Finally, he looked back up into the night and uttered the thoughts of an inept poet towards the stars:

_“Tho’ my ill words ere un-deserved,_

_thence first eye, be in no doubt,_

_Enchantress, my guard doth dissolved._

_My heart dreamt a place I long to be,_

_‘tis hard to seal yet impossible to concede,_

_tho’ your heart is too blind to see._

_Tell me doth also conceal?_

_What hides in your heart’s zeal?_

_From first meet, was ever my fate sealed._

_The more I say, the more I pay,_

_‘twas best hidden deep. But now, nay,_

_Silence now spent, to thou I bay;_

_Time upon our next meet,_

_hear me, enchantress,_

_the silent shall speak.”_

Many hours later night came, and waned until the moon fell from the sky to abandon the stars to twinkle tears of mourning to the coming of the sun.

Legolas stared far into the night sky but the beauty of the stars stretching out to him with soft tones of luminance through the darkness fell unseen. He didn’t see anything, nothing but the bright blue eyes hard bursting with poorly veiled spirit, pretty pink glow upon pale cheeks, small graceful hands full of lush green herb, streaming black hair brushing against earthen coloured dress.

Memory danced in the darkness, stirring to awaken lightness within him in delight; song of places beyond rainbows, of dreams, sung in gentle harmony to warm the soul accompanied by a smile to warm the heart. Even if he had not asked in outright earnest way, it was for him and him alone the song was sung.

With a heartfelt sigh, Legolas turned away from the stars and stood up. Having put his thoughts in order, at least _somewhat_ , the time had come. Without word he coaxed Aglarebon down the other side of the hill along the well-used track cut into the gorge. Bats and other nocturnal animals shrieked and went about their business unhindered and unconcerned. Creatures of the night rarely feared day-walkers; they owned the darkness.

The Lost Wilderness as it was known by the Dúnedain was a triangle wedge of tall forest, jutting rock bluffs and spurs, and edged by two fast following rivers; the _Medlin_ which twisted and turned for a hundred and fifty leagues before flowing into the _Mŷl_ ; a long thin lake collecting all the waters from the eastern mountains before spiriting swiftly westerly all the way to the sea.

The second river was simply the ‘ _unnamed’_ river; or more correctly but vastly less popular named _Carn Dûm_ . Out of obstinate hatred the locals refused to acknowledge the river’s true name. Such was the ‘ _unnamed’_ river’s reputation most folk would never dare swim, fish, or drink its waters until it passed through the underground rocky caverns thirty or so miles to the south, just before flowing into the _Mŷl_.

Legend claimed this underground labyrinth was created long ago by the rulers of _Fornost_ ; a mountain brought down over the river in a strategic effort to stop the dark Númenóreans easily rafting down from Angmar towards the lands of Arnor.  The local folk now believed this underground river created a natural filter, purifying the water from Carn Dûm’s filth and evil, before mixing into the _Mŷl_.

Legolas didn’t know whether or not that was true. Local folk legends held little interest to him, finding most were foolish and incredibly fanciful.  Considering the only way across was to swim, he was hopeful this particular folk-tale was also wrong.

Either way he’d know soon enough.

Ten minutes later they stood at the base of the gorge and the ‘unnamed’ river of Carn Dûm flowed before them.

Enchanted?

Legolas took a long breath, his eyes scouring the dark water moving by them at a fair haste, the small waves lapping the bank lit by the soft glow of the stars above. There was nothing his superior senses could see detect.

No magic tugged at his consciousness.

Four days he’d followed the trail starting from Langwen’s farm. The orcs had been clever to disguise their tracks using different methods of misdirection. None were successful but they’d still been clever to try.

Following the trail served to ensure the enemy had no beachhead within the north-eastern Dúnedain borders - he’d proved that now. The raiding party which killed the family had come from across the river, and from the Angmar Mountains.

The raiding party consisted of no less than fifty orcs; a number great enough to require boats or a temporary bridge, like a rope bridge slung across from the use of crossbows. This was one of the mysteries Legolas hoped to uncover.

Legolas continued to eye the water of the unnamed river before them.

“Man i nauth gîn? Am man darthog? (What is your opinion? Is there cause for hesitation?)”

Aglarebon snorted in derision.

With a last look at the moon seeping towards the horizon behind him, Legolas gently stroked his friend’s neck. Tearing his eyes away from the west, Legolas set his sights firmly towards the east and his mission. He climbed up onto Aglarebon’s back, “A, melloneg, athanc? (Well, my friend. Shall we?)”

Aglarebon moved off, walking them into the river with a good measure of care and slowly swam them across the border and into Angmar.


	10. Legacy of Hate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Please Note: During longer scenes of Sindarin dialogue, brackets will denote what is spoken in Sindarin. Two reasons: there are gaps in the language (so I’m told) and second, I can’t be demanding so much on my translator when we've barely started and the Sindarin dialogue will only get heavier towards the end.
> 
> ** My understanding of magic is less than I’d like, even after reading much of Tolkien’s work. I guess I’m just not that smart. One minute magic is done by elves and wizards, the next Númenóreans, Men, Dwarves and followers of the witch-king are all casting spells.  
> So, I’ve kinda fudged things a bit and drawn from imagination. In this way the story is a little more AU when it comes to magic in the world of Middle Earth. Please don't feel obligated to explain - the chapter's done now! 
> 
> *** Thank you to my beta, the lovely Frannel. 
> 
> **** Again, Sindarin translations expertly done by Dreamingfifi of realelvish .net
> 
> ***** Thanks to those who continue to support this story. I hope to do your faith justice with more chapters very soon.
> 
> ****** Warning: Mature content for mature readers. Mentions of torture, death and descriptions of violence.
> 
> ******* An insanely hard chapter to write! I hope I get a little credit for trying ;) LOL

* * *

_Dramatis Personæ_

Aglarebon – Woodland Stallion, Sindar's mount

Aragorn/Strider – Male, Chieftain of the Dúnedain

Baradon/Sculls – Male, Ranger

Bregol/Web - Male, Ranger

Camaenor/Vice - Male, Master of Arms

Eryndes – Female, Mistress of Carthal & Apothecary

Geledir - Male, Master of Livestock

Gueniel – Female, Midwife

Laeron/Wren – Male, Ranger

Lobordir/Joust – Male, Master of Stables

Mydedis – Female, Mistress of Housekeeping

Nestdôl – Male, Master of Healing

Sali – Female, Mistress of Kitchen

Sindar/Master Elf /Legolas – Sinda Male, undisclosed Prince of the Woodland Realm on unofficial secondment

Úrion/Bear – Male, Second in Command

* * *

 

Aglarebon stopped walking, his head twisting sharply to the left, ears perking to the wind.

Legolas nodded as the horse took a long sniff and felt his long back tensing under his legs and backside. “No bell (be calm),” he soothed.

For half a day now their smell fouled the air; a stench of death and defilement, rotting blood and flesh long dead adoring bodies never washed, but instead caked with grime and excrement.

The silence of the forest was also telling. Creatures of all shapes held quiescent in collective terror and disgust at the vulgar insult to the living world invading their home.

But more than that, Legolas felt the tingling of his spine, the dread in his very stomach; the orcs were close.

Yet if Aglarebon’s senses finally had picked up their scent, then the time had come.

Legolas swung gently down to the ground, his boots soundless on the dried clutter of the forest floor. To continue on now as they’d done so far was to invite catastrophe for both of them. Thus far they’d kept downwind but it would not be long before the orcs picked up the scent; the scent of horse and an elf.

“Av-'osto (Do not fear),” he soothed, shifting the small provisions bag he’d prepared earlier that morning on his belt and secured the bottom to his thigh with a leather strap. Taking a quick once over he was satisfied nothing upon his person would glint or rattle.

But he then checked again anyway. His life now relied on his ability to become one with the forest. No trace, no beacon. There would be no chance for survival if the orc pack were to discover him.

With a small sigh, he took Aglarebon’s face to look into his eyes. “Dan-aphado i vâd ‘wîn, meno thar i dhuin- (Retrace our path, back across the river-)”

Aglarebon started to fuss.

“Lasto nin a garo hui ebenthin. (Hear me and do as I say),” he ordered quietly, stopping any further fuss by firmly holding his white nose still. “Padro nuin chîth a ‘waith. Dartho annin dandoled. Meno hí. (Walk under the shadows and mist. Wait for my return. Go now).”

Aglarebon dropped his head low and pushed into Legolas’ belly with a shameless nicker.

Running his fingers through the long luminescent white hair of his mane, Legolas smiled affectionately but his patience was waning. “Meno (Go).”

Stepping away, Aglarebon did not raise his head and continued to sulk until reaching the line of dense forest. Cocking his head back to his master, Aglarebon stood waiting; waiting for one final chance Legolas might change his mind.

Legolas held his gaze unwavering, not allowing the sheer ridiculousness of Aglarebon’s manner to reduce his resolve. There was no way to continue any further with him and survive.

Aglarebon capitulated with a soft snort. Pricking his ears and standing tall, the white of his hair slowly disappeared with every step into cover of the bushes and trees.

Legolas did not doubt he would do as instructed. Aglarebon was spirited but trained well. He would not disobey.

Rechecking his weapons secure and supplies well hidden underneath the skirt of his jerkin, Legolas stalked over to the wallow which caught his nose earlier. Although still close to the untainted lands on the other side of the river, the mud was acridly pungent, telling of waters never disturbed and decaying organic matter. Though not nearly as potent as he would find in another fifty miles towards the mountains of Angmar, it still served his purpose.

Kneeling down beside the wallow, Legolas did not hesitate. Cupping handfuls of the slimy and slightly green hued mud, he spread it on generously, coating his arms, painting over his chest and belly, and down each of his long legs.

The smell was awful but nowhere near awful enough to mask his scent entirely. This unfortunately meant not being able to get as close as he’d like to the orc pack without being discovered. Until they came across the more decadent mud holes towards the heart of Angmar, distance would have to be maintained. Legolas only hoped it would not inhibit him too much for he was keen to sneak close enough to hear their words and the plans they contrived.

Looking pointedly up at the sun breaking through the dense canopy overhead, it was worth considering he’d made a possible flaw in his plan. This side of summer, the muds of Angmar were undoubtedly drier, putting his ability to recoat later at risk.

If that were the case, his mission was already a failure. There was nothing else he could use to mask his scent from the orcs.

Using the tips of his fingers with only the slightest of grimaces, he carefully rubbed the mud around his eyes and mouth, and then handfuls rubbed into his cheeks, down his throat and caked into his hair, from root to tip. A strip of fabric quickly tied the mess back away from his face and eyes. His back was perhaps the easiest. Lying down on the ground he rolled into the edge of the mud, trying not to imagine how much of it seeped into his scabbards or the mess it made of his bow and arrows.

Taking a small dab in his fingers, he flocked the shiny metals of his buckles and the silver detailing on his quiver.

Of course, he might’ve just jumped into the wallow. Getting to his feet and resettling his weapons, Legolas eyed the mud with disgust.

No, he’d never jump in.

Not unless the need was dire and his life at stake.

Taking a spare leather bag, he filled it with more of the mud and some of the foul water lying on top and tied it to the inside of his tunic.

Satisfied he stunk enough for even a dwarf to become ill, he pooled his senses. His nose was momentarily affected by the stench, but with the passing of a few minutes he would become accustomed to it.

They had not moved; to the north east, perhaps three miles away. The orcs own senses would be also hampered by the smells, sights and sounds of the forest but unlike an elf born into it; they were unable to filter it out as well. This was perhaps why orcs preferred barren wastes to rich life-filled forests.

That and their loathing for anything fair and living.

Legolas stood tall and strong, his legs and arm muscles flexing in anticipation, his breathing as steady as the beat of his heart. With one last look towards the east, and seeing nought but more dense forest, he felt his purpose resonate clearly.

Firmly determined, Legolas emptied his mind of the distractions and possibilities lying in wait for his return.

Without further thought, he took to a silent run in the direction of the orcs.

* * *

Timing was crucial.

The orc standing guard looked away from his post to run a crude rock across the blade, and Legolas reacted, leaping across the space from one tree to another. Taking his weight with one hand, he swung his body up and wrapped a leg around a trunk. There he remained motionless, poised and waiting.

Again the orc looked down at his axe, running the stone at the opposite angle. Legolas vaulted, pushing off the anchor of the trunk and branch, landing in a squat behind a bushel of crimson autumn leaves some three metres higher.

Abruptly the orc looked up into the trees, his black eyes tracking high and Legolas froze perched precariously balanced on a branch no thicker than the balls of his feet.

The branch begun to sway under his feet-

Just in time the guard’s interest in the trees waned and he returned to his sharpening. Legolas took no time to breathe a sigh in relief. Gaining what push-off possible from the weak branch, he leapt hard. Soaring through the tender growth, Legolas kept his eye trained on his target; another branch but far studier. Reaching out on the downwards fall, his right hand locked onto it with a sure grip, his shoulder taking the sharp jolt from the sudden stop.

Keeping a wary watch on the orcs down on the ground, he released his grip and bent his knees. Landing smoothly, Legolas was satisfied he’d made it unseen.

Crouching low through the thorns and dense leaves of the rampant blackberry covering the rocky outcropping, he snuck on his hands and feet to a position of the greatest advantage.

Lying down over the unkind edges of the rocky ground, he fixed on the party arriving on horseback along the heavily overgrown track to the orcs’ camp.

Four days had passed since the orcs’ unknowingly gained a hidden stowaway.

So far they’d remained ignorant. Unfortunately however Legolas still hadn’t learnt enough of value to pay his undertaking of the mission. Resolute not to return to the Dúnedain empty-handed, the time had come for greater risks.

The first few days spent shadowing the orcs had been no harrowing task. The density of the forest and the orcs’ ineptitude traversing through it made stalking them far easier than perhaps was to be expected. It felt more like he was once more in the lands of his father, trailing a pack of spiders back to their nests or orcs returning from raiding human settlements, unwisely tracking through his forest.

Back in the Dúnedain borders, the orcs displayed a talent for disappearing into thick bushland where the rangers were unwilling to go except in great numbers. The rangers lost their advantage to the orcs in the closed quarters of the forest, whereas the rangers had the better skill, the orcs had a greater natural strength and agility to move about the trees.

This time however, this forest’s lack of established canopy meant the undergrowth was even denser than those in Carthal lands, choking the first three metres with thick woody bushes and thorny creepers. Not even the agile orcs’ could dance their way through thickets only birds and rodents dared.

The orcs’ solution; hack their way through because even though the trail they were following showed evidence of heavy use, the regrowth was rampant. Those orcs at the front were slowed to a mere walk, swinging their axes and blades into the tough blackberry while the thorns tore into their skin.

The forest was under an enchantment of sorts. One could actually see the re-growth beginning to repairing the damage the orcs inflicted; bright green spears stretching out from the cuts in the bushes, growing at a rate of three inches an hour. The forest was determined to cut off the trail once more before the orcs came through again.

As for the identity or purpose of the spell-caster? Well there were many magical beings in the world, especially this far into the north. Legolas was not concerned by the enchantment, for if the trees welcomed him and the bushes turned their thorns out of his path as they did, the spell caster paid no ill will to elves.

And an elf of the Woodland realm needed no trail.

The lack of canopy did mean less cover but the young trees spread their branches wide and spurted bushels of green leaves to capture the sun and Legolas had remained well hidden to the orcs.

Legolas’ eyes watched at the expected party rode over the last rise and down towards the orcs’ encampment. His and Aragorn’s estimation to the raiding party’s number had been on the mark. Fifty-six orcs made their cumbersome way along the track, marching at a mediocre pace of little over thirty miles per day. Only three hours ago had the party finally stopped their struggling march through the forest, coming upon the built up camp with a further seventeen orcs in residence.

The camp was very poor; a stream dammed by rocks, flies and beetles feasting on bones and skin from the orcs’ last few meals carelessly tossed aside, the ground cleared and fire pits dug.

The camp was just as poorly guarded. Fires lit up the night. Over seventy orcs lounged and slept massed together, surrounded by high stone and trees.

Even at night, twenty Dúnedain archers could freely sneak up and they’d all be dead before any grasped their weapons.

Such was the arrogance of the orcs this side of the river.

Legolas’ fingers twitched involuntarily imagining the ease of their slaughter. Eager was his desire to end their filthy existence.

But not even Legolas could take on seventy Angmar orcs single handedly. Nor would he try to pick off any of them. That was not his mission.

The orc guard closest to him stood and cried out a warning of the approaching party. There were three of them and Legolas bit down the bile rising to his throat.

Humans.

Not just any humans. The markings they sported on their darkened robes and horses’ leathers was unmistakable:

The order of the _Carn Dûm_ ; these were the disciples of the Witch-King. Spell casters dabbling in dark magic. Descendants of the first Dark Númenóreans and those said to have created the plague which tore through the Númenor, bringing the ancient kingdom to its knees.

Not possessing his father’s talent for illusion, Legolas hugged the ground with a weathered breath. The Dark Númenóreans were nowhere near as complacent or stupid as orcs. Any movement now could spell his doom.

Yet, the words they would speak in mere moments were worth the risk.

The trio slowed their weary mounts with a hard yank of their reins . . .

Legolas focused. Drawing in deeply, he sought to touch the power within him; the light of the Eldar, and with it he pooled all his concentration, all his meagre magic into his most powerful weapon. His senses. With his ears sharpened and fixed upon the three humans, their hushed murmurs started to silhouette into words-

“-onwards. Your master does not take your languid pace well. You have two days!”

The leader of the three, the one who’d spoken to the orc commander, pulled his horse’s head sharply about and they took off once more, back up the rise whence they’d come.

Legolas sighed quietly but in great frustration. So much for hearing vital intelligence. The humans had been nothing more than mere messengers, sent to expedite the orcs along.

The orc leader gestured rudely at the departing humans, laughing in profanity. Then he moved back to his lieutenants, “Get them up! We’re moving out!” Striding past them, the commander took to his soldiers, kicking and slamming his fists into them, “Get up you scum! Those not on their feet will lose them!”

A cry sounded. Then another. Then so did all; their collective cry echoing and all rose to for immediate departure.

Legolas carefully looked about him. Their trail forth was very close to his cover, but he waited. They must all be allowed to pass him before risking getting up. Four days he’d trailed the orcs and was no closer to discovering the plans. His mud camouflage was beginning to thin and he was sure the orcs would soon smell him.

Yet what choice did he have?

The last orc passed. Legolas remained still, not even risking setting his breath free less the orcs hear it.

Straining his ears and uncanny awareness about him to ensure there were no stragglers, Legolas finally rose to his feet. Already he felt the life in the forest rejoicing and the rampant regrowth beginning to erase the footprints of the orcs.

Frowning, Legolas looked passed the orc pack. The blackberry and other bushes ahead of them was thinning, right before his eyes. The human spell casters had lifted the enchantment to allow the orcs an easier passage?

Squeezing his fists tight, Legolas surveyed his own path. The forest retreating in haste from the dark magic or not, cover was soon to thin out regardless; the land would smooth in another five miles, merging into an open and barren wasteland filled with dark red rocks and mud wallows. Long low-lying plains lead straight up to the tall north end of the Misty Mountains, filled with cattail clumps, sickly coloured mosses, toadstools and long dead trees.

If the mission was to be a success, he was going to have to get in even _closer_.

Biting back the need to add his own particular brand of profanity to the day, Legolas took off after them.

* * *

 

The orcs ran the remainder of the night, through the day, stopping long after the sun gave way to the moon that next night. Many of the orcs collapsed the moment the order to rest was given.

Legolas for his part was holding up well enough, but was honestly grateful for the break. It had been a tough nine days since leaving Carthal and the constant threat of death kept his nerves on edge.

Easing himself down upon the jagged edges of the dark red rocks, he pulled out his small skin to take a mouthful of water. So far his supplies were lasting, but if they did not reach their army’s main encampment soon, he may have to consider allowing them to continue without him and follow their trail once he’d sourced out drinkable water and something edible. Something _not_ dripping in blood.

He was reluctant though; the best chance of discovering their intentions, strengths or any other vital information was to remain close enough to eavesdrop.

At present, Legolas kept a distance. During the run he’d kept a two mile gap between them. He’d even stopped once to wade armpit deep through a completely stomach souring mud wallow before catching to them again.

When they’d finally stopped to rest, he crept up and climbed to the highest shelter available. From his higher vantage point, the orcs were below and continued about their ways.

Their present path made _Gundabad_ their unlikely destination. It would seem their master, whoever he was, commanded his forces from Angmar’s northernmost stronghold, _Carn Dûm_. This was the more unfortunate of the two, since its isolated location meant neither the Dúnedain nor his father’s spies knew of the goings on there. Not for the past thousand years at least.

There were of course stories, folk-tales; blue wizards, Dark Númenóreans, sorcery and dark spells. The remnants of the Witch-King's realm, still holding fast to their lord’s evil ways.

But they were _stories_ , glorified by imagination and lack of tangible truth.

Some of the stories could now be seen as fact; Legolas experienced the turbulent weather over the plains of Carthal, and saw the human sorcerers and the markings they bore. He’d seen the opposing enchantments battling for control of the forest.

What more there was to find with each mile covered? What truths lay just over the next sunrise?

“Where are the others, the vermin?”

Legolas peered over the razor rocks and down at the orc camp. Mainly the orc who controlled the  others through threats, fear, and actual maiming or killing. But there was always a leader. This leader, the one who spoke to the humans yesterday, was taller than the others and far louder. His protruding jaw encouraged Legolas to designate him ‘Nagor’ (Biter).

Thus far Nagor hadn’t spoken anything of consequence.

“Maybe they ate it instead of bringing it back,” another orc answered.

“Then they will take its place,” Nagor growled, pushing his way through his troops. “Rest you slackers. We run again at first light.”

Getting to his feet, Legolas decided to follow him. Nagor was waiting for something to be brought back and surely would eventually reveal more but only if Legolas was nearby to hear it. The bushes were stunted in the harsh, rocky soil but leafy enough to offer enough cover so long as he maintained a cowered profile and kept to the shadows.

Nagor walked around through the camp, kicking and punching whoever took his fancy with no decided purpose.

Legolas stopped, crouching behind a particularly sprite cattail clump and considered returning to hiding to wait for dawn. Nagor was not doing anything of importance and he was taking unnecessary risks in his desperation.

Balancing himself with his fingers dug into the small rocks at his feet, he turned to follow his footsteps back to his hideout. And stopped.

A figure.

A figure sat shrouded in the darkness, the stink emanating from it only now reaching Legolas’ already taxed senses. How did this figure creep upon him so?

Legolas blinked. No, the figure was prone and the stench left no doubt. The figure had not appeared like an apparition out of the night air.

The figure was long dead.

Curious, Legolas maintained a close vigil of the surrounding brush and the location of the orcs, and crept closer. Reaching the cover of the larger boulder, Legolas slowly moved his head to the side. It was as he thought; the remains of a human.

Nagor came back into his sight, his feet hard against the ground in purpose.

Legolas froze. Halting his breath, he poised himself. If Nagor showed any further indication he’d been discovered, he was prepared to fight.

He would not win. But neither would he allow himself to be taken alive. Legolas was determined to take out as many of the wretches before his heart beat its last.

Reaching up, wrapped his fingers around the knife handles . . .

Nagor came striding by him then stopped.

Legolas breathed in, his muscles tensing in anticipation . . .

Nagor reached up one of his hands, then tore a small rodent in two with his jagged teeth. Stepping away from the boulder where Legolas hid, Nagor passed the body of the human and laughed from his belly as he threw a kick at the corpse. Taking the other half of the dead rodent into his mouth, Nagor moved on and out of sight.

Not allowing his eyes to close for a second in relief, Legolas kept watch for ten minutes before allowing himself to move once more.

That had been too close.

Still on his hands and feet, Legolas eased himself out from behind the boulder, careful to not disturb any brush or stone and mark his presence. Around him the air was still and he chanced it.

Feet and hands silent against the earth and stone, he crawled over to the body.

The rotting stench was overpowering the closer he got, even compared with the combined smells the powerful acrid mud and the general foulness of the orcs.

Part of the skeleton was visible on half the face, the stomach and bowel eaten away, the flesh of his hands, arms and legs eaten and some fingers gnawed off.

It was a man; _was_ a man. Tied up to the tree Legolas could only guess he’d been left to die slowly with the help of birds and beasts looking for an easy feed.

It was a common form of torture. Legolas had learnt it well but orcs were the masters. This was their favourite way of killing their elven captives. Given the time it took for an elf to die of exposure, hunger or thirst, or general eating by wildlife, the orcs had their sport well made for them.

Humans were lucky for their frailty in this instance, death coming far swifter and brought an earlier end to their torment.

Close enough for an examination, Legolas studied the body. His hair was dark and skin light but both eyes were missing. Undoubtedly the work of birds. Judging by the length of his legs and torso he’d been either a tall man, or one of the Dúnedain.

Six of his remaining fingers were broken and there was evidence of burning and branding on the toughened skin on the chest.

 _Torture._ This man had suffered greatly before his life had mercifully ended.

Peering in even closer, Legolas scanned what remained of the man’s skin and clothing for anything which may aid in identifying him. His cloth was of poor-make and mended many times over. This made the case of him being Dúnedain increasingly likely. His boots were deer leather but with no decorations or markings.

Setting his stomach against the smell and with as much respect as he could manage, he forcibly opened the man’s jaw. There was nothing out of the ordinary in there though he was missing three teeth from the back.

Almost giving up, Legolas pulled his tattered clothing away from what remained of the abdomen and found something.

Not much, but something.

A belt and buckle.

Slowly and silently, he eased a knife from his back and quickly cut it off the belt. Re-sheathing the knife, he pocketed the buckle.

Fixing the body back the way it was before, Legolas held his hand to his breast, whispering no louder than the flap of butterfly wings, “Ni ngohenathol am mened o len sui hen? Savo hîdh nen gurth (Forgive my leaving you this way. May you have peace in death).”

Retreating without a trace, he returned to the shelter of the shadows.

He could go a week without sleep, perhaps eight days. Nine at most.

Another day they would reach _Carn Dûm_. At least that was the demand made from their master. From the moment they reached the valley of the ancient city, Legolas would find out nothing more.

Not even his father with his bag of illusionary tricks could gain him entrance to the fortress. And just like Lasgalen, enchantments were said to guard the gates and towers.

Unlike Lasgalen, beasts were also rumoured. Drafted in from the harsh icy wastelands further north, they were said to have hides of wool and tusks as hard as dragon-spikes, running on two and four legs with an appetite for any beast of red blood. Despite his years Legolas had never seen one, only the vague illustrations in his father’s library.

No, whatever Legolas was going to discover would not be from inside _Carn Dûm_.

Lying back in spot overlooking the orc camp, Legolas watched the stars warily. He could ill afford to be taken by them but their beauty helped fortify his mind and stave off the want for sleep . . .

_“(Seventy five ago your father sentenced the reading of each book and scroll thrice. Five seasons passed and yet you still had to complete the total of your penitence).”_

_Legolas didn’t bother looking up, “(Your point, Lanthir)?”_

_“(The library was never a place to find little Greenleaf. Unless of course he sought the labyrinth to hide him from his father’s wrath),” Lanthir came to stand over the desk, “(Or mine).”_

_“(You are wrong. I never feared anyone’s wrath, least my father’s. I simply sought solitude from all the noise).”_

_Lanthir scoffed, “(Truly)?”_

_Legolas sat up with a grunt, “(Why are you interrupting my reading)?”_

_The ancient elf bowed to him as if he were king, “Pardon, prince. Your father bid me bring you this gift in commemoration of your conception day.”_

_The stewing bitterness from the last year re-awakened in his heart, “(My father lies under his own banishment. I wonder at all he had the wisdom of the date).”_

_Lanthir smiled, “(He knows very well the date. This day marks your coming of age. Your people await you at the celebration)-“_

_“(You may make my excuses),” he cut him off and returned to the book._

_A heavy thud landed on the desk; a chest of wood, intricately detailed with long flowing carvings and largely rectangular._

_Curiosity almost got the better of him. Curiosity was always his bane and secretly he yearned to look inside. What had his father arranged?_

_Or had he? Had he simply ordered Lanthir to do it for him?_

_Holding fast to his bitterness Legolas kept his eyes trained on the book. The words however no longer passed through his eyes, “(If my lord wishes to bestow a gift, surely it would be polite to be the one to bestow it).”_

_Lanthir long pale fingers played with the chest bolt, slowly, deliberately opening the lid to reveal the contents._

_Curiosity finally won just as Lanthir knew it would._

_Legolas’ eyes widened._

_“(A peace offering, perhaps)?” Lanthir smiled fondly._

_Legolas looked up at his old tutor in hope, “(Did this gift come with a message)?”_

_Lanthir’s smile faltered a moment then grew stronger, “(Not as such no, but he did say when he ordered their construction that if his son chose to use weapons of a barbarian instead of a sword of his noble race, then so be it).”_

_All the hope he’d so fleetingly held faded at once. He reached over and knocked the lid back down._

_“(My prince)?” Lanthir asked quietly when he returned to the book._

_He didn’t answer. All the gold, silver and mithril blades in the world would not buy what he truly wanted._

_“(The king will expect your gratitude).”_

_Legolas again remained silent._

_“(You are one hundred years old now, young Greenleaf. The time has passed for adolescent tantrums. Your father will expect)-“_

_“(Be silent)!”_

_For a handful of minutes Legolas tried to read, tried to silence all the bitterness and hurt, but in the end he glared up at the silent elf, “(Oh, speak)!”_

_“(The king grieves),” Lanthir spoke just as genteelly as if he’d not been rudely ordered to shut up. “(He hides to shield his pain from you. He fears unwillingly unleashing it upon you).”_

_Legolas turned away._

_“(And you? Locked in this library, reading about the fell things to the north, planning your vengeance? Angmar will not be defeated by a single elf).”_

_“(I seek the end of their kind)-“_

_“(The end of the orc will not win approval from your father)-“_

_“(Neither will being the dutiful prince, sitting in court and smiling at dignitaries. I will end their kind, not for my father, but for myself).”_

_“(Of all the thousands of books in this library there are none to tell you how to succeed. There are_ millions _of them).”_

_Legolas gestured to the book, “(Information is a faultless weapon).”_

_“(Nay),” Lanthir shook his head, “(Wisdom._ Wisdom _is the faultless weapon. You forget so quickly)?”_

_Legolas felt his top lip curl._

_Lanthir placed a hand on the book, “(Behind all your resentment and hurt, you too are grieving, but you are also battling against the great wisdom ingrained by your very nature. Angmar’s destruction - the destruction of the orc will not ease your pain. I know you see the truth of this).”_

_Legolas rose to his feet, closing the book on_ Carn Dûm _and taking the knives from the chest, “(You may tell my lord Thranduil I will acknowledge his gift once it has earned the blood of a thousand orcs).”_

_When he walked out the library, Lanthir spoke no more and did not follow._

_He knew better._

_Once in his personal quarters, Legolas fixed the scabbards to his quiver mount and he buckled it on his back. Adjusting the straps until each knife was within easy reach, then buckling to his back and drew them together as one. Moving them about experimentally, swishing through the air with ease but discovered he was overcompensating for weight that was not there. The blades were lighter than his old knives and would take some time to adjust his style to suit._

_Still, they were beautifully crafted, long gleaming blades of mithril. Handles of white and gold._

_Truly weapons worthy of an elf-prince._

_As Lanthir suggested they were undoubtedly a peace offering; a public acceptance to Legolas’ chosen style of fighting; close and intimate._ Barbaric _his father had called it in his attempt to persuade him to change his preference to swords._

_Legolas was an expert with both, but preferred the intimacy of the knife._

_He took a fresh stack of arrows fashioned by his own hand and added them to the quiver along with his hand-crafted short and long bows._

_Retaking the knives, he returned them to his back._

_“(Careful, I do not care to punish you again for slicing through your hair).”_

_Legolas froze. There was only one, one elf in all Middle Earth who could sneak up on him; one whose powers of illusion could willingly fool even Legolas’ superior sight._

_But why was he there? He’d not come to his personal quarters since Legolas was still afraid of apparitions and monsters under his bed._

_“Legolas.”_

_Swallowing, he turned to face him for the first time in months. The great elf-king was as he remembered; all accept the shining light in his eyes remained dimmed._

_“(Where are you going)?”_

_Legolas fixed his bracers around each wrist, “(On patrol with the guard. I am of little use here).” Though he wasn’t about to admit it, Lanthir was right. Angmar, Gundabad and Carn Dûm could not be taken down by a lone elf. Instead, he would satisfy his need for revenge by protecting the people of his realm._

_Yet, the bitterness and hurt deepened when Thranduil didn’t contradict him._

_“(You are of age now. The choice is now yours).”_

_With barely a polite nod to acknowledge his father’s words, he walked past and headed for the gangways to lead him to the outside world._

_“Ionneg (my son).”_

_Legolas stopped, stunned. It had been so long since his father called him so familiarly. Hope filled his veins-_

_“(Eru protect you).”_

_Legolas inclined his head and struggling to ignore the tear in his heart, “(And you, Adar).”_

_Taking to the gangways, Legolas didn’t look back . . ._

A roar shook the earth beneath him.

Legolas blinked away his memories and eased himself forward to look over the camp.

Another roar joined in and for a moment Legolas wondered if Nagor had decided to move them out early.

Spotting movement, it was sadly clear that was not the case.

The group Nagor had been impatiently waiting for had returned.

Another cry chilled the air. This one innocent and young.

Of the dozen orcs returning from their hunt, eleven carried their kills over their shoulders; elk. The twelfth held a captive, bleating in terror.

An elk calf.

Orc number twelve slung the squirming and kicking baby across to Nagor who took it under his arms, cackling cruelly at its cries.

Legolas closed his eyes in despair. Elves of the woodland might enjoy the discipline and thrill of a successful hunt but they never allowed an animal to suffer needlessly.

This poor creature was about to suffer horrifically before being allowed join his brethren.

A novice shot from his bow would see the calf liberated, speeding him on the way to the next world and away from further harm.

But to do so would give away his position.

The bleating turned to agony and it tore into him. No elf would sit idle when a creature called out to him for mercy. The calf looked directly at him, begging, pleading, reminding him of the primordial sacrament his family shared with its kind.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Legolas did the only thing he could and bit down hard on his lip and remained hidden. The pain helped to drown out the cries of terror and misery from the young elk, whilst giving him a partial punishment for his own inaction.

But most importantly the pain helped him remain in control, stopped him from doing something extremely foolish, succeeding in nothing more than getting _both_ them killed.

Clenching against the pain and anguish assaulting his soul, Legolas concentrated on the light within him, his immortal spirit and prayed for a quick end.

But the haunting cries of the young life suffering continued to rip into him, getting louder and louder, echoing inside him until it was all he heard. The pleading in its eyes the only thing he saw.

Biting down harder, nothing helped when without warning something within him broke.

The shielding around his heart cracked then shattered.

The loss left him exposed and there was no defence; nothing between him and the pain of his past.

And like the elk, the very symbol of his family’s legacy was assaulted without mercy, so too was he; assaulted by memory . . .

_A beautiful lady in a body of glistening silver armour, her sword ripped from her hand and thrown to the ground sodden with the blood of her people. A young elf barely at the age of full height screamed in desperation, leaping over the slain bodies and blades, his legs sprinting hard towards her._

_But the distance was too great._

_The lady’s hollow cry filled the battle-marred valley, blood seeping from out her mouth and the jagged blades tearing into her tender flesh. More blows came, strike after strike, blades piercing her armour and pale skin, bones shattering. Slowly her cry faded until it was no more._

_The youth reached them at an inhuman speed, ripping through the lady’s assailants, a tidal wave without mercy against the shore. His blades singing a terrible melody of death, carving with ease through each in his path, his only thought of reaching the fallen lady._

_But it was too late. As the last enemy fell to pieces to join its fellows, dark red blood covered the beautiful lady’s face and hair, her gaze unwavering up into the heavens._

_She drew no breath._

_Falling to his knees, the young elf lifted her lifeless head into his lap, cradling her broken body in his arms. “(Naneth (mother))?” he shook her, “(naneth? Nana (mum))?” his voice broke and hot tears fell down his cheeks and mixed with the red streaming down his mother's face. The sight sickened him and he quickly brushed away the blood only to add the black blood of his slain to her pale skin. With a sob he pressed his head to hers; begging her to hear him, “(Wake. Please! Please don’t leave me).”_

_She did not answer._

_Burying his face against hers, the long thick blonde tresses smearing his skin in her blood, he wept, “(Please return to me. Please nana).”_

_Time stood still without a care, and still he wept._

_“(Take-take my son),” a hollow voice ordered, “(take him).”_

_The youth raised his face, wet with tears and the blood of his mother, “(Adar (father))?”_

_His father didn’t respond, his eyes trained down at the lady in his arms, “(Take my son away).”_

_“Adar?” he begged but what he was begging for he did not know. Did he think the powers of the great elf-king could bring her back?_

_Did his father blame him?_   _Was it his fault?_

_“(Ada (Dad)),” he pleaded, the sound pitiful to his own ears._

_“(I said take him!)” his father roared, his eyes still unmoving._

_He felt harsh hands grab at his arms and shoulders, wrenching him up and from under his mother. She fell from his grip to land upon earth not fit to hold her, “(No! Stop! Leave me! Nana, please, don’t leave! Adar?!)” he wrestled against his father's soldiers, but the pain in his heart weakened him and his effort only saw him landing on his knees. “(Adar?)” he begged once more._

_His father refused to look at him, still staring down at his wife, “(Take my son! Leave!)”_

_The soldiers doubled and they dragged him away, the last he saw of his mother was his father falling on his knees, cradling her lifeless body as he had done, but the great king did not shed a tear. He only held her tightly to his breast, just as he had always done._

_Never again would her pale cheeks blush and smile at being playfully pulled into her husband’s lap or a hasty embrace behind the pillars and corners of their home._

_Nor the silver of her eyes to shine as she looked upon her son with the purest of love, or to hold him captive within her arms, peppering his face and brow with kisses until he pleaded for mercy._

_The youth’s eyes did not leave them as the king’s soldiers continued to drag him away. His parents, his beautiful and kind mother, bloodied and torn, and the dead grief on his father’s face, the once bright everlasting light in his eyes now darkened evermore._

_And the youth vowed ‘never again’._

_Never to fail again._

_And lady’s greatest love, the king’s son, never wept again . . ._

Legolas blinked, his hard laboured breathing and the pain in his heart were overwhelming, but squeezing every muscle, every ounce of strength to gradually gain control of his memories once more. Deep, deep he buried the memory; down so deep; so far to a place it could no longer control him.

Silence filled the air. Opening his eyes, Legolas saw why.

The calf had died.

The death was much to the displeasure of the captors.

He knew not whether it had been his prayer or circumstance, more likely to be his young body could not handle the torment. All he knew it was now at peace and safe once more, far out of the reach of its molesters.

Legolas wiped at his mouth and came away with a red smear across his dirty fingers; in desperation to gain control of his memories, he’d drawn blood.

Not a lot of blood, but even a smear could be enough to alert the orcs.

Turning away from the sight and the wave of nausea the sight of his blood brought, he upended his water skin into his hand, washed his mouth, and then carefully spilt more water over his hand.

At least the elk kills would help to disguise the scent.

He paused. Still . . .

Pulling out the pouch with the stinking slimy acidic mud, he quickly rubbed some more into his face and around his hands.

There was no harm in being certain.

Down below the orcs feasted and while they did, Legolas watched the stars. Yet, just like in Carthal, the beauty of their shimmering light did little to appease him.

The fate of the elk calf and the assault of memory left a wave of fierce anger and hollow bereavement. It was all he could do to remain lying still in hiding. He longed to escape the waves of emotion still crashing against his already battered heart. There was no relief. So there he lay, waiting for the orcs to move and to continue his mission. He listened all night, hoping Nagor would reveal something of importance.

Alas, it was a quiet night and Legolas as left to churn and simmer.

Until the first stirrings of dawn grew and the lightening of the sky. The sound of grass and rocks moving caught his attention. Turning back onto his stomach, Legolas spotted a group of orcs slinking off into the darkness.

Watching them go, he didn’t make the decision.

He simply slid up onto his feet, checked none of the orcs or camp guards were looking in his direction.

And followed.

They roared but their efforts to remain hidden from the other orcs worked against them. Ten thousand roars would not be heard by any of their fellows this far away. They’d left the camp to head west, far and away from the others, heading back into the forest.

Where they were going, their purpose?

None of it mattered.

He strode towards them, long strides brimming of confidence, unblinking eyes filled with cold malice. His hate, his anger would feast in the spilling of blood.

The orcs didn’t bother to regroup for battle, sparing not a single glance at each other. Instead they held their weapons aloft and ran at him.

Without breaking gait, Legolas drew both blades from his back, twirling them about his wrist with cocky ease before dropping his hands to his side. He didn’t bother with posturing or even to take up a defensive position; he would not defend.

He would take them apart.

Hatred saturated him, three thousand years of anger and grief fuelled his rage until he was blind to nothing but his pain.

“Long way from home, elf-scum!” the quickest of the orcs yelled just before reaching him.

“I have no home!” he roared.

No, they took it from him the moment they took her.

The orc lifted his axe and threw it down upon him. Legolas sidestepped, bringing up his blade and cut him from stern to neck and their leader was dead before hitting the ground.

Too quick. Their deaths should be slow, torturous.

The others cried again, hefting their weapons, charging.

Muscles twitching and straining under the enormous weight of his passionate rage, he once more allowed them to get close.

Then tore into them.

His beautiful twin blades struck into arms, legs, bellies, spilling blood and soft organs. Each strike was deliberate, targeted damage without immediate death. Slowly the six orcs were hacked done with sadistic languish. The face of death hovered in front of his eyes; the face of death on a beautiful lady, the face of death on his father, alive but darkened inside. With every hit and cut, with every drop of black blood spilt, he tried to shred the image.

And relieve his guilt.

The last remaining orc stopped, stepping away to look at his comrades. His yellow eyes flicked at the damage, the body parts then spat at him with pure hatred, “Legolas the Merciless? The Orc Hunter?”

“You know me?” he asked cockily, “then you know your death is but a moment away.”

“My master will be generous when I hand him your head, elf-prince-scum!”

“With the heads of thousands of orcs to my name,” he laughed coldly and advanced slowly, “you believe you can defeat me?”

Hestitation filled the orc’s face and took half a step back, his eyes darting about him.

“Or will you run, coward? I promise, make me chase and I will lengthen your death. Your choice; quick or not? You know of me, you must know I am true to my word.”

The orc decided to try anyway. With a quick turn, the orc leaped into desperate flight, his feet digging in hard into the ground -

Then fell into the earth not three paces from where he started, one of Legolas’ knives cleanly through his shoulder and the other in his guts.

Legolas sauntered over to his victim, hands twitching with dire need to make this orc pay. Make this particular one the bringer of all his pain, all his grief and loneliness, to unleash the wealth of anger and hatred upon him. Tear him to shreds, slowly, and perhaps in doing so maybe the pain would ease.

Or more likely, diminish the last shred of that young elf whose heart was lost on that battlefield so long ago.

But he couldn’t.

Perhaps that was the line he’d yet to cross.

Hauling the orc up somewhat to its feet, the orc snarled and twisted in his grip to throw a fist full of dagger straight towards his face. Legolas used the momentum of the orc’s turn to push him off balance and twisting him around, the knife going wide.

Acting on pure instinct his hands took the orc’s jaw, wrenching hard, snapping its neck.

The orc dropped to the ground with a thud.

He there stood motionless, taking many long drawn breaths to calm his spirit and bury his passions once more.

The forest around him once more returned to life. Birds and beasts cried out in rejoice for their enemy was slain and their forest free.

Legolas shook his head. The powerful and usually well hidden passions which so defined his character would surely be the death of him.

Well, he mused, at least it would not be this day.

Looking around at what he'd done, he sighed but was not displeased. Blinded by passions or not, the world was better without their kind. They were an insult to nature and creation.

Yet, he did have to move quickly. However unlikely any of the other orcs would come looking for their missing number, it was sheer folly to risk his life on assumptions and guesses.

One by one he dragged the bodies to the mud wallows and using much strength, awkwardly tossed them towards the centre of the stinking well. It was not fool-proof, but the mud should help disguise the bodies and cover the smell.

Alas though, the bodies did not sink. Legolas watched, his jaw squaring, hatred and frustration getting to him once more.

“Delos! (Loathing!)” he shouted, causing the birds to take rapid flight from the trees around him. Taking a long calming breath, he fought to gain control of himself once more.

With an exasperated shake of his head he waded into the putrid wallow. Reaching the bodies, one by one he climbed on top, stomping and jumping with excessive force until they were submerged down into the depths of the mud then waded back.

Washing his hands from any remains of the black blood, too his face and clothes, he took palm-fulls of more stinking mud and reapplied thickly. Though he’d just taken a swim in it, orcs smelt blood more aptly than anything else. Even a drop they could pick up from a mile away.

He stopped, his hand poised over his neck.

The forest was quiet.

Halting his breathing, ears straining hard, his eyes darted about the shadows. Had they come looking for their missing comrades after-all? Had they tracked the scent of blood?

Bolting up from his knees beside the wallow, Legolas sprinted hard for the tree-line. Reaching it, he jumped, using the lower branches to swing up higher, climbing quicker than any tree-fairing creature. Almost to the top, he hid behind the trunk and kept his eyes sharp. Up there in the trees he was trapped, but if they weren’t looking for him, then it was the best place for him to hide.

If they were looking, ground or tree would not matter. He could not outrun them.

Heartbeats turned into seconds, seconds into minutes.

Just when Legolas started wondering if he’d got it wrong, he heard them. Faintly, no more a breathe of evil upon the wind. But it gradually grew, louder, closer, one murmur of sound becoming many. A horn bellowed no more than two miles to the north.

The space between his brows knitted. The orcs he’d been trailing were to the east when he’d left them. They could not have doubled back and come around from the west so quickly.

Straining hard to distinguish between the whispered sounds, the answer came like a smack to his face.

What he was hearing was not the orc party.

The number of feet multiplied. Metal striking against metal. The creak of wheels and slaps of whips. Cries and bellows of creatures not yet known to his ears stabbed through the air. And the orcs. His nose hampered by the stench of the wallow and the mud caked upon him, he’d not noticed before.

What he was hearing was beyond any doubt; a large army moved along the base of the mountains in a direct line for _Carn Dûm_.

Legolas could hide from seventy orcs, risking his life for what information he might’ve overheard. But an army? With so many more eyes and noses, so many talking and moving making hearing much more difficult, there was not much to be gained.

Yet his ears could not tell their number or even their condition or nature. He had to see for himself.

Though the orcs path through the mountains was well etched in Legolas’ mind - an important discovery to relay onto the Dúnedain, Legolas could not retreat now. Not taking this opportunity to discover their strength would be unforgivable. Furthermore, he hadn’t truly compromised himself. It was unlikely those leading the army would be on the lookout for him.

Only two more miles and his mission would be over, free to gladly return to Carthal.

Pulling out his small skin, he took a sip. The space between him and the encroaching army remained thick forest. He could move far quicker through the treetops than down on the ground.

Replacing the skin to the inside of his jerkin, he leaped through the air in the direction of the noise.

* * *

 

Four days later Legolas once more stood facing the fast moving waters of the _Carn Dûm_ river. The sun shone over the water and the Angmar side of the bank. Once he’d retreated, his path had been easy. Still keeping his senses attuned to any trouble, he was able to run at a decent pace through the high mountain forests, the dark red rocks of the wasteland, and back through the rocky bluffs to the river.

A further four days at a good horse pace would see him returned to Carthal.

Even though he was fairly certain there were no orcs following him and the forest was alive with the promise of safety, Legolas did not call out for Aglarebon.

There was neither sight nor sound of him, but Legolas knew he was there.

The young horse had not disobeyed him.    

Walking down to the river cautiously, keeping a good eye out about him, he pooled the cold water into the palms of his hands and vigorously washed the mud off his face and hands. It was a decent swim to the other side, and with his head under water, he didn’t wish to get any of the mud in his eyes.

Standing up, he bent his knees, swinging his arms back then hard forward and kicked off the ground. Legolas landed arms extended in front of him some five metres from the bank.

The tales of the river were wrong, he thought as he surfaced another ten metres towards the other side.

Aglarebon swam him across the first time, Legolas swam the second and nothing dark or magical had befallen them.

Feet hitting mud, Legolas pulled himself forward and waded up onto the bank. Taking another cautious look around, he still did not call out to Aglarebon.

There was life surrounding him and no whisper or smell of orc.

There was another smell though.

With a little more vigour than necessary, he shook much of the water out of his hair and clothes as he could then dropped back down into the water.

Legolas was after-all unapologetically vain and righteously so to his way of thinking. As such, he was quite particular about his upkeep and appearance. He and Aragorn often jested with each other; Aragorn for Legolas’ meticulous self maintenance and Legolas for Aragorn’s complete lack thereof.

Aragorn would have a great laugh seeing him now, dunking time and time again, trying to rinse off the mud and stench of Angmar with river water.

Conceding none more would wash off without hot water and soap, Legolas breathed in and let out a long, crisp whistle. Anyone overhearing would think it the call of a most beautiful bird.

Aglarebon however . . .

A sharp snort answered the whistle, so too then the beating of hooves and the sound of branches being tossed aside.

With a smile, Legolas watched his young friend break through the thick foliage and stride over to him with little care for stealth.

“Ni ‘lassui an gi chened, melloneg. Ach nadhríneg i had hen? Gwe eno chêr os sad varn (I am joyous to see you, my friend. But did you forget this place? We are still far from safety).”

Aglarebon snorted again, tossing his head in impatience before shoving his face into Legolas’ chest.

“Ci trastanthen? (Were you troubled)?” he smirked, giving him a scratch behind his ears, “Boe angin geliad eno. Ach dolo; damenathab ani mellyn ‘wîn? Sevin maur puigad. (You must still learn. But come; shall we please return to our friends? I have need of cleaning),” he sniffed in disgust, climbing onto Aglarebon’s back.

Not waiting for permission, Aglarebon took off at a fair flight.

“Daro, dollost! Dadhríneg nad? (Halt, empty-head! Did you forget something)?” Pulling him up, Legolas pointed him to the trail back up to the top of the bluff to collect his belongings.

He did chuckle though; perhaps Aglarebon thought he needed a bath too.

* * *

 


	11. Best Laid Plans . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Thank you to all who favoured, reviewed and kudos. Much appreciation to those who’ve offered their support and encouragement.  
> ** All Sindarin dialogue is now to be indicated with brackets. I may go back and get the simple words translated a little later on, but at this point I am more interested in getting more chapters posted.  
> *** As always, thank you to my lovely beta, Frannel.  
> **** Like before, this chapter is cut into two parts for easier reading  
> ***** Song - Whispers of Paradise by Anúna

 

* * *

 

 

_Dramatis Personæ_

Aglarebon – Woodland Stallion, Sindar's horse

Aragorn/Strider – Male, Chieftain of the Dúnedain

Baradon/Sculls – Male, Ranger

Bregol/Web - Male, Ranger

Camaenor/Vice - Male, Master of Arms

Cordoves/Swan – Female, ranger

Eryndes – Female, Mistress of Carthal & Apothecary

Faron/Dusk – Male, Hunting Master

Foruyndes – Female, Mistress of Stores

Gueniel – Female, Midwife

Laeron/Wren – Male, Ranger

Lobordir/Joust – Male, Master of Stables

Mydedis – Female, Mistress of Housekeeping

Sali – Female, Mistress of Kitchen

Sindar/Master Elf /Legolas – Sinda Male, undisclosed Prince of the Woodland Realm on unofficial secondment

Trîw/Jester – Male, ranger

Úrion/Bear – Male, Second in Command

 

 

* * *

 

 

After four days, out from amongst the trees lining the road, the great stone wall and main gate finally came into view.

“Sindar?”

“Sindar!” another ranger called. “Sindar has returned!”

Legolas nodded towards them but Aglarebon maintained his speed, charging through the opened gates with no care for the rangers guarding it.

On the other side of the great wall, Carthal stood proudly; the great manor three houses high, its dark stone brightened in hot mid afternoon sun and curtained by lengthened grass, greened by the late season rains.

“Pass the word,” the guards shouted back in the direction of the manor, “Sindar has returned!”

“Pass the word! Sindar has returned!” he heard the word being passed on.

Legolas held up his hand returning the greeting but didn’t hinder Aglarebon’s enthusiasm and they cantered quickly towards the main embarkation area.

Everything seemed much as he’d left it; fields, livestock, children at play. Some of the children stopped their play to come running upon seeing his approach, stopping before reaching the road to watch him ride by silently. The trees shading much of the cut grassy areas and nestled in around the manor had begun to change hue with the first hint of autumn.

The fragrance in the air, of hay, grass and greenery mixed with the sounds of chooks and children was familiar and welcoming.

Aglarebon came to a brisk halt outside the main entrance with a snort.

Chewing his lip, Legolas jumped down, “(Why the haste)?”

Aglarebon pawed at the ground and threw his head in the direction of his stable.

Legolas’ eyes narrowed. “I believe Aglarebon is anxious for your ministrations, ranger,” he addressed the youth quickly approaching from his duty station. The boy was gifted horse-hand under Lobordir’s firm tutelage but Legolas only vaguely _felt_ his name was Glavrol; not nearly confident enough to call him by name.

The boy grinned happily, running an affectionate hand up Aglarebon’s neck, “He always is. No doubt he’s looking for a long draft of my special sweet blend and a thorough rub-down.”

Unstrapping his saddle bag, Legolas snorted, “Do not spoil him too much, or I fear he will never wish to leave your care again.”

Glavrol beamed proudly from Legolas’ incidental compliment. “Welcome back, Sindar.”

With a small nod he lightly smacked Aglarebon on cruppers, “(Go then. Be coddled).”

Released from his master Aglarebon set off for the stable at once, practically dragging poor Glavrol behind him.

“(Ill-disciplined donkey),” Legolas mocked under his breath, and received a short snicker in response before he disappeared from sight through the main stable door.

He had to smile. Aglarebon knew precisely what it took to make him happy and was never so selfless as to deny indulging when offered.

“Sindar!”

Legolas barely had time to turn before being engulfed in a bear hug. “Get off me, you great fool,” he reproached half-heartedly, not returning the embrace but conceding to an affectionate pat on his friend’s shoulder.

When Aragorn didn’t let go though, he took a hold of his shoulder and urged him back.

Aragorn finally released him and stood back, a big smile bursting on his handsome face, “Welcome back.” His smile wilted, eyes trailing critically over his face, “You look terrible.”

Legolas’ brow rose but then lowered with a snigger.

“Come,” Aragorn’s smile returned and he pressed Legolas forward, “Let’s go upstairs. You’re later than we expected.”

“You were concerned?”

Aragorn glance at him, “Not at all. I know how languishing a folk are elves.”

His eyes narrowed at the man and Aragorn grinned widely, “Maybe a little concerned.”

“Your lack of faith does me little credit.”

Aragorn stopped dead.

Legolas stopped too and held his friend’s indignant stare, barely holding in his mirth, until he finally broke into a smile.

Aragorn took his shoulder none too gently, but held it strongly, “You are a worse tease than your father.”

“I should hope so,” he boasted, taking Aragorn’s shoulder. “I am sorry for my delay but it was necessary.”

Aragorn acknowledged his apology with a slight nod and gestured a little awkwardly for them to continue. Aragorn was a deep man and often greatly troubled by fear and doubt. Despite his jest, his friend’s concern did warm him with affection.

They walked in silence through the main corridor and headed for the stairs.

“I see nothing of note has changed in my absence,” Legolas offered conversationally.

Aragorn docked his head to the side and back again, “We’ve seen no more of the enemy and once word spread you’d left for Angmar, the rangers stopped demanding an all-out attack. Many even wished to follow your lead and head out to discover the enemy's plans.”

“You stopped them?”

“Of course. We have doubled the patrols however, but as yet have found nothing.”

“Not even a trail? Nothing?”

Aragorn simply shook his head which was enough to tell him his friend was worried. The fervour of his friend’s greeting was explained at once.

“My efforts were not so unsuccessful,” Legolas offered gently. “I believe we can now say with utter surety the orcs are not just making sport.”

“I will send for Úrion.” Aragorn looked him over again, his amusement masking his worry and doubt. “Unless you’d prefer to wash first?”

It was a fair suggestion and Aragorn knew him all too well, but there was a time for vanity and this wasn’t it. “I can wait.”

Aragorn watched him from the side, his eyes dancing with humour, “Very well.”

The corners of Legolas’ mouth curved upwards. Even after his efforts to wash in the river, by Aragorn’s face alone he must have truly looked a fright. “I am glad to be back,” he looked around the familiar corridors as they headed for the stairs, “You may be surprised to learn just how much.”

“I’m pleased to hear it, even if you’re simply favouring Carthal over Angmar.”

“Nonsense,” Legolas rebuked and they started up the stairs in tandem, “I speak as I mean.”

Halfway up the stairs, Aragorn stopped the woman from the kitchen, Sali, Legolas remembered none too fondly, “Sali, can you please have Úrion report to the war-room immediately and-,” he paused to look at Legolas, “bring something sweet and sticky with tea?” 

“Oh very well, Strider, if I must,” she sighed dramatically, “Welcome back, Sindar. Always a fine pleasure to see _you_ again.”

Legolas inclined his head politely but did not speak.

Grinning, Sali walked passed them continuing down the stairs.

“She still has eyes for older fellows,” Aragorn sniggered quietly as they continued their way up.

“Keep those opinions to yourself.”

Aragorn chuckled looking over his shoulder, “She has a renewed spring in her step. We have to keep you around for a while yet – we may get another couple decades out of the old girl.”

Legolas flicked a dried clump of mud off his hair, “As I have said, we have much to discuss before I can wash. Unless you prefer snickering about the overzealous attentions of a crass woman?”

“You know how greatly I enjoy snickering when you are the topic.”

A hiss escaped his lips and he shook his head, “Agoreg i dass? (Are you done?)”

Darting through the much busier halls of the second level, Aragorn took his time answering, “(It is good to have you back).”

Legolas glanced at him and they fell into silence coming to the third set of stairs, leading them to the top level and the war-room. Legolas pressed his lips together at length then finally murmured, “How fares your-” he stopped and changed his mind, “your people? Have they recovered?”

If Aragorn noticed his change mid-sentence, he made no comment of it, “Well enough. Like your own good people, we’re accustomed to loss at the hand of our enemies.”

Legolas gave a small nod but was not satisfied and his eyes darted from face to face in passing and down the long corridors, even sniffing the air for any hint of the particular mix of flowers.

“Are you looking for someone?”

He brought his attention back to his friend. Aragorn’s face showed nothing but idle curiosity, “I lament I still do not know your people well enough.” It was not a lie. “But I am still pleased to see them.” Again, it wasn’t a lie.

Aragorn lead him to the war-room, “A sentiment shared despite your misgivings about them. Perhaps over the next couple days you will see how well I know this about my people.”

 

* * *

 

 

“-That was when I found the army,” he set down his tea reluctantly. Glad though he was to be back on real food; warm tea and fresh food, news of this magnitude should not be delivered casually. “Orcs numbering four to five thousand. Beasts I never before beheld except for the rudimentary drawings in my-” he stopped himself in time, “my lord’s library. Taller than five men, going on both two and four legs, pulling great wagons loaded with assorted armaments and weaponry. If I were to guess, the beasts were pulling wagons from Gundabad loaded with the bounties of its armouries, taking the safer northern road around the mountains. These beasts, originating from the northern wastes, although fearsome enough to look upon stand little threat against archers and spears. Or our stationary defensives. They lack both thickness of hide and intelligence. The enemy’s preference does seem to remain for an open fielded battle, not all encompassing sieges.”

“But you weren’t able to penetrate their fortress?”

“I have not the magic to counter their enchantments,” he answered Úrion, “Nor my gaze able to pierce the high stone walls or spires; the enemy’s number inside the fortress remains unknown.”

“Four to five thousand is number enough.” Úrion, a man to be relied upon for his steady, unflappable temper, sipped his tea slowly before continuing, “enough to keep us under-sieged until we either come out to face them or starve.”

“They cannot pass unseen through these lands,” Legolas reminded him, “The Dúnedain will have three, possible four days notice.”

“Can’t they fool our eyes; use their spells to blind us to their approach?”

“Not even my lord Thranduil could hide an entire army.”

“What of this other caster? The one whose spell left you unhindered?”

Looking to Aragorn, he found his friend burrowed under deep concern, “There are many magics in this world. I have no further knowledge than what I have spoken.”

Aragorn clearly wasn’t satisfied and continued his troubled thoughts.

“Can we not call upon Thranduil?” Úrion asked, “He is our ally after all.”

Legolas didn’t answer and waited for Aragorn. To call on his father for help on behalf of the Dúnedain was not Legolas’ decision to make.

It was the chieftain's.

“Gell is a name I could call upon. His band may have a hundred to add to our number,” Aragorn blinked away his thoughts and sat back in a great show of ease, “Thranduil’s forces are occupied keeping back the tide on two fronts. Sindar?”

“Indeed,” he answered, still eyeing his friend. “My lord will not commit the bulk of his forces this far north, no matter what regard he holds the Dúnedain. To do so would invite _Gundabad_ , even _Mordor_ through the front gates. However,” he paused, considering, “-having said that, the north does present an open door to our flank. If the Dúnedain were to fall-” He nodded finally, “I do not think a small contingent unreasonable.”

“A small contingent?” Úrion asked.

“I would not expect more than a couple hundred.”

“A couple hundred would do little against five thousand-”

“Nay. We need only hold out until winter’s first freeze,” Aragorn spoke over Úrion. “Even orcs and elves will freeze to death in harsh enough blizzards. If we keep our borders . . . They must _not_ build a base within a day of Carthal. We ensure that and they will have no choice but to wait until the thaw of spring.”

“The North Rivers and the plains are extensive,” Úrion pointed out warily.

“We’ll set up scout posts and adhere to a strict patrol regiment and any attack or movement en mass will not go unseen.”

“You truly believe orcs will shy away from battle on ice?” Legolas shook his head and gave in, reaching over to the serving platter to take a second warmed bun glazed with treacle; an incredibly simplistic offering and keeping with the poorer table of the Dúnedain. Simple it may be yet welcome. Looking back to his friend, he spoke carefully, “Such a reckoning is in error.”

“If they had an established camp within a day’s march I’d agree with you,” Aragorn said stroking his beard, “No, winter’s our ally and will keep the bulk of them away.”

“Yet they continue to raid farms?” Úrion cradled his big hands around his tea once more, “out in the open - bold and unchallenged. A week's journey just to kill a few Dúnedain at twice the losses to them? I can’t see the logic.”

“The party I tracked were not rogues acting upon their own whim,” Legolas told them, his fingers absentmindedly lightly playing with the bun’s sticky glaze, “The raid was planned and executed by order.”

Aragorn and Úrion stared at him. “You’re sure?” Úrion asked.

“The messengers were expecting them. Their master was expecting them. Given the Dúnedain man I discovered, I do not think it unreasonable to assume their attacks of the farms were for the procurement of captives.” He gave in and took a bite.

“Captives?”

He made them wait until he finished his mouthful, “The orc we questioned the morning after the feast spoke of the heir, but knew not his identity.”

Aragorn flinched, “You think this man was a turncoat?”

“Indeed that is not what I think,” he told him flatly, “He was tortured and left for a very slow death.”

Aragorn and Úrion looked at each other, but it was Úrion who spoke this time, “Many come and go from here, especially those without wife or child. Yet we should try to discover his identity, let any waiting for his return to know his fate.”

“You should leave this to my charge,” Legolas told them firmly, “I had no choice but to abandon him, exposed and without dignity to save my own life. It should fall to me to discover his family.”

Aragorn looked ready to argue but at Legolas’ stern insistence he reluctantly gave in, “Very well, we’ll leave it to you.” With a glance at each other, both Aragorn and Úrion rose together.

Legolas watched them with a raised brow.

“We’ll discuss your discoveries with the lieutenants,” a smirk crept upon Aragorn’s lips, “and have preparations commence for the new patrol schedules and scouting posts. Sindar, my friend, you better get cleaned up.”

Legolas didn’t answer, his eyes narrowing at the men.

Úrion chuckled, “He thinks you smell. Didn’t you notice he ate none of the buns? Strider has a weak constitution.”

Finishing the last of his food, Legolas finally stood to join them, “Yet for all the times I wished to have my nose pegged.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Welcome back.”

Legolas nodded to the fifth Dúnedain whose face he didn’t know. The others filling the busy corridor smiled at him as they passed.

None stopped to speak to him in lengthy conversation, however, and their manner was still far too reserved around him.

Not outside the halls of his father had his presence been so celebrated. Legolas was trying to return to his room for his much anticipated wash, but with so many Dúnedain stopping him to speak, his progress was slow - even if his room was on the same level and only a short walk from the war-room.

“Sindar! Eru bless this day to have you back amongst us,” the small silver haired woman took his hand warmly.

“Mydedis,” Legolas greeted with genuine fondness. The mistress of housekeeping was as sweet natured as powdered sugar and made it her business he was comfortable in the manor.  She also didn’t feel the need to be reserved around him as many of the Dúnedain did. He looked around them pointedly, “Spirits seemed to have risen sharply in my absence.”

“Certainly they have. The time for mourning has passed.”

A group of younger women walked passed, each one carrying armfuls of linen and big smiles directed at him.

Legolas looked at Mydedis pointedly.

“Oh that!” she showed her few remaining teeth in a happy smile, “Many have lamented your hasty departure and now delight in your return.”

“Indeed?”

“Indeed!” Keeping his hand tightly in hers, she guided him along the corridor, thankfully in the direction of his quarters. “Come. You look like you could do with a little freshening up.”

Legolas let out a small chuckle.

Mydedis joined in, “Well truthfully, you look a bedraggled. Come, I have everything ready for you.” She let go of his hand to gesture around them, “When you left, many expressed their debt to you for riding off into Angmar the way you did.”

“Debt?” he questioned doubtfully.

“They are very grateful. Never has a stranger come and put his life on the line the way you have. Life in the north has always been tough but we learn quickly to rely on ourselves and each other. It’s nothing more than a little hero worship. You’ll get used to it.”

Legolas looked at the smiling faces passing him, “I wish they would not.”

He got enough of that at home.

Mydedis patted him on the arm, “Carthal’s door will always be open to you, a home for you if you should ever choose it.”

Legolas tingled with the warmth, his discomfort forgotten, “(Thank you).”

“Now,” she pointed down the long corridor ahead, “I’ve had a bath drawn for you in your room. One of the women will be by later to see to your clothes. And there’s a plate of food warming by the fire and a pitcher of wine.”

“Wine?” he wet his lips.

Mydedis gave him a secretive wink, “One of our caravans returned early and with it some of our supplies we’ve been doing without over the past few months.”

He ducked his head to her, “You are very kind.”

“Aw,” she hushed away his compliment, “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“I am most grateful-”

“Oh, look. There’s Eryndes.”

Straightening up quickly from stooping down to Mydedis’ smaller stature, he saw Eryndes move into the corridor four doors ahead of them. She’d not seen them and quietly chortled in confidence with the taller, thin women of whom she was closely acquainted. A midwife, he remembered.

Legolas hastily glanced down at his unsightly state. Though he’d tried to wash off most of the mud, that had been four days ago. Mud, dust and unnamed grime covered his clothes and skin, and most damning, the putrid stench of Angmar still lingered pungent in his nose.

Feeling foolish, he righted himself immediately and held himself tall; he was a rose garden compared to some of the rangers after only a single patrol in the hot sun.

Still his fingers itched with need to discretely brush himself down, pull straight his clothes and fix that sagging braid in his hair.

Why had he not done as Aragorn suggested and bathed earlier? Years ago his father would’ve tanned his hide for being out in public looking anything less than regal.

“Ah, Eryndes!” Mydedis called, “Look who’s returned!”

The two women stopped their conversation. The midwife excused herself quickly and left Eryndes alone to greet them.

“Eryndes would be most pleased to see your safe return,” Mydedis told him, “She has been most anxious.”

“As have we all,” Eryndes put in quickly as she joined them, “I am glad to see you safely back amongst us once again.”

“Thank you,” he stood perfectly still and completely unsure of what to do with his hands.

“Well, undoubtedly you wish catch up,” Mydedis inferred lightly, “It’s wonderful to have you back, Sindar but I have duties to attend.”

Legolas nodded to her and she patted him on the arm then left the two of them standing together, feeling more than a little awkward in the middle of the corridor.

Three rangers Legolas knew not of came passed, “Welcome back, Sindar.”

Legolas nodded to them reluctantly.

Beside him, Eryndes watched the rangers walking away, “Many attributed your hasty departure with the meeting in the war room and have been eager to make amends.”

Legolas gazed down at her, trying not to be daunted by the curve of her neck and neatness of her small ears, “The foolish words of one so young should not cause all this concern. I have already forgotten.”

“Not only for Bregol, but also their calls for revenge and foolish demands to take up arms. There are those who have sought Strider’s forgiveness and may seek yours as well.”

“Mydedis called it hero worship,” he said shortly since his mouth was full of sand, “It is unnecessary.”

“We are not accustomed to heroic strangers coming to save us.”

“I have yet to save you,” Legolas bit out through the sand without thinking.

“Perhaps not yet from the orcs,” she admitted timidly, “but your flight to Angmar without hesitation on our benefit alone, well, many have been humbled. Many of whom have been long without hope have been heartened. We are grateful.”

“I,” the words floundered in his throat, “you are welcome.”

Her gaze met his and Legolas stood mesmerised by the delicate shape to her eyes. Even with his perfect memory, he’d forgotten just how unnerving it all felt.

How simple words failed him when he so strongly desired to appear eloquent and charming.

“Well,” she started to back away signalling her wish to leave, “I should-“

“Please,” he said without thinking and out of his dire need to stop her. This awkwardness between them was intolerable. He breathed in, “Will you tell me, what I have missed?”

“Missed?”

“The festival,” he said quickly and literally the first thing coming to mind, “I lament missing the last day. Aragorn spoke fondly of the games.”

“There is not a great deal to tell,” she told him sorrowfully, “with the raid and . . . much was cancelled. The feast and especially the games are surely a highlight. Langwen,” she paused, “always enjoyed competing, probably because more often than not was victorious. She was very much looking forward to opposing Aragorn this year.”

“I see,” he murmured quietly, frustrated once more that even a seemingly innocuous topic as a festival was a path back to unhappy memory.

“However many requested replacement day be organised, and so once the caravan returns the day after tomorrow-”

“Caravan? Has the caravan not already returned? Mydedis said as much.”

“One caravan has but many will go and return over the next month as each crop is harvested and our silos fill.”

“I see.”

Eryndes smiled, “The day of games is always greatly anticipated and I hope you will enjoy with us.”

“Thank you,” he said gently, perplexed and more than a little disappointed. He’d anticipated a somewhat comfortable air between them after their last encounter. He vowed he would speak.

Yet now, he barely knew how to breathe anymore.

“Master Elf?” she placed a hand on his arm. “Is everything alright?”

A thrill touch shot through his body from where she touched him, right down to his toes, and stirred him from his stupor, “Forgive me but I do not wish to offend any further, I must rid myself of this filth.”

“Filth?” she asked, looking around them.

Legolas gestured to himself, indicating the dark burgundy smears across his body, “I tried to rid some of it before I returned, but much still remains.” She didn’t seem to understand. “I used mud from Angmar upon myself.”

Her gaze followed his gestures as if only just realising his sad state, “Why on Earth would you do that?”

“To mask my scent,” he said obviously.

“Your _scent_?” she asked, completely lost. “What is wrong with your scent?”

He blinked; taken by surprise it took all his self control not to laugh at her ignorance, “To mask my scent from the orcs. Their sense of smell is akin to elves.”

Her cheeks lit up with a soft touch of pink, “Oh I see. How incredibly silly of me?”

Legolas’ chest lightened, “Not at all silly if you never had cause to bathe in stinking mud.”

She shifted a little, “I have heard of therapeutic baths of mud, but I would not think it quite the same.”

“Indeed not,” he agreed, “if you can forgive me, I will not foul the air any longer.”

Her pretty blush grew, “You do not _foul_ the air, Master Elf,”

“You are kind, but false.” He truly stank, and his mood soured further. “Even a drunk-unwashed-pig-farming- _Naugol_ could smell me,” he grumbled.

Her lips clamped together, her eyes lit with humour. “A what?”

His head tilted to the side, “A dwarf.”

She gave up. Covering her mouth with her hand, she laughed a laugh to warm his belly.

“Pardon my uncivil tongue,” he apologised lightly.

“Then you subscribe to the general dislike amongst your kin regarding dwarves?”

He’d expected this question and didn’t hesitate to answer, “I do.”

“I met dwarves once,” Eryndes told him factually, “a long time ago sure but I never saw reason for such prejudice. They were really quite charming to me.”

His lip curled. Dwarves _charming_? “You are far too kind. I fear nothing short of a goblin would earn your dislike.”

She stepped forward, “I dislike plenty-”

“Eryndes.”

Eryndes looked over her shoulder. The midwife was staring at them, expectation on her face.

“Oh,” Eryndes faced him with apology in her eyes, “I must go.”

Legolas didn’t answer and met the midwife’s stare unblinking. When the midwife walked back down the corridor with a huff, he asked, “I do believe she dislikes me.”

“Gueniel?”

“Nay,” he nodded towards the departing woman, “The midwife.”

“That _is_ Gueniel,” she confirmed with a small laugh, “and yes, she dislikes you.”

“Indeed?” a vain smirk rose to his eyes. “Why? I have not spoken to her but once.”

“Aye, and called her _midwife_. Her’s is not the most forgiving of temperaments,” Eryndes told him hastily and rushed after her friend.

With a long drawn breath, Legolas watched her animated steps until they disappeared down the stairs then went to find his hot bath and wine.

At least by halfway through their conversation he’d been able to remove the sand from his mouth and the choke from his throat.

It was a start.

 

* * *

 

 

Legolas walked around the tree and stood to watch. Two dozen children sat in the lush summer grass under the giant pear trees shading them from the mid afternoon sunshine. Around them the cicadas drummed an early rhythm to the afternoon air.

Freshly bathed, freshly clothed, cleaned hair dried, combed and neatly re-braided, Legolas looked and _smelt_ once more as he should.

At the front of group was Erchel, one of the mistresses; mistress of instruction and learning if he wasn’t mistaken. Erchel walked around the edges of the children, animated and smiling as she led them all in song.

All of the children joined in the singing, some were sitting in the laps of women, and one of the women was Eryndes. She sat with a small girl in her lap, her arms around the girl’s body, singing encouraging to her. The child was shy but slowly joined in. Eryndes’ friend, the midwife Gueniel who disliked him, sat beside her with a fair tune strumming from her lute.

Legolas crossed his arm over his chest, “Do we not have more pressing matters?”

Aragorn smiled with a genuine affinity, his gaze steady upon the group. After a moment he spoke quietly, “We will wait until they are finished.”

“You did say we were to organise the scout posts and exhibit your progress of your elite scouts?”

“All in good time, melloneg.”

Legolas tapped his fingers against his arm.

“Patience,” Aragorn stopped his tapping with a hand, “This will not take long.”

He looked at his friend, “Somehow I never imagined the fabled Dúnedain rangers reciting stories to children.”

“They are our future,” Aragorn caressed his words with eyes shining, “If we do not take the time to raise our children properly, the Dúnedain culture will fade into nothingness. Our songs and tales; our history and legacy.”

Legolas scoffed, “Yes, I understand. What I do find amusing is _you_ teaching children.”

“They are my children, perhaps not by blood but I am no less their father.”

Surprised by the longing in Aragorn’s voice, Legolas felt a pang of his own regret and lost all of his impatience and amusement. Silently, they continued to watch.

Finally the women and children fell silent. Aragorn coaxed him forward, “All must take their turn teaching children, even me.” Together they walked over to the Erchel who had waved them to come forth. Aragorn whispered, “Your father never takes the time to teach children?”

“Not for a very long time,” Legolas said sombrely leaving Aragorn to keep away to the side of the group.

The children watched Aragorn take a seat absconded from the great hall at the front of their group and started to hush each other. Aragorn greeted the children and told them he would tell the story of _Annúminas_ and the splitting of the realm. He sat back in the chair and began to recite.

During the telling, some of the younger children began to squirm and fuss, earning them a stern look or nudge from one of the women. The young girl in Eryndes’s arms was soon asleep as she stroked the girl’s long dark hair absently while listening to Aragorn’s story.

When the story was finished, Aragorn stood up and smiled as the children said thank you together. With a smile he looked down at them, “Thank you.” He then turned to Legolas, “Sindar, which story you would like to share.”

Legolas froze, “Pardon?”

“Undoubtedly you have plenty of stories to tell the children?”

His eyes flicked over the group of children, everyone of them now staring at him. Even the girl in Eryndes’ lap had stirred and stared up at him sleepily. “What story would I want to share?” he groused.

Aragorn shrugged, “A favourite of mine is Nîr Randír (Weeping Wanderer).”

He was _serious_.

Legolas narrowed his eyes at him and he opened his mouth to refuse-

All of the women and children continued to stare at him. Eryndes caught his eye and she smiled.

With a clenched jaw, Legolas walked over to Aragorn, his glare not wavering from his friend who happily bid him take his seat. Still feeling the upmost reluctance, he shot a fleeting glance back to Eryndes, who was still smiling. Obliging, he sat.

Drawing in a quiet but deep breath, he began . . .

Legolas finished the story with the obligatory (and so here ends the tale and time flows ever on with the beauty of life) to end every elven tale.

He was most surprised the majority of the children had remained attentive during his telling, He would not have thought children, of mortals or immortals, had the restraint to sit and listen to such a tale.

The _Weeping Wanderer_ wasn’t a particular favourite of his either.

The children however thanked him for his story with gusto, some missing teeth where new adult teeth would grow and others with dirty knees and all with dark hair, each one of them brightly smiling up at him. He bowed his head, “(I thank you).”

“Forgive us, children,” Aragorn told them and Legolas went to stand with him, “but we must return to our duties now.”

The children all gave a collective groan.

“Now, now. Perhaps we’ll have time for more tomorrow.” Aragorn nodded to Erchel and she took charge of the lessons once more.

“Well done,” Aragorn praised as they walked away.

Legolas glared at him discreetly, “I did not appreciate that.”

Aragorn smiled gently then nodded back to the children, “They did and very much so. You are a good storyteller.”

Legolas looked back, some of them still watching him with keen interest, smiling and waving at him. He felt his brow soften. He conceded with a light shake of his head, “Very well. However, next time,” his tone dropped, “a little more warning would be _respectful_.”

Aragorn laughed lightly, “Next time you can tell them about the great Elf-King, the company of thirteen Dwarves and the burglar-Hobbit.”

“Only if you tell of the fair Evenstar and the mortal Elessar,” he returned Aragorn’s tease, but his eyes swept to the side to catch that same child from weeks ago recommence stalking him.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” Legolas grumbled and pointed to the manor, “Come, I am curious to see how our scouts have survived your training in my absence.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was suppertime. The hall was filled with folk eating and talking, a bright glow streamed through the great windows out into the darkened paths and gardens surrounding the manor.

There were three at least who were not in the hall as expected.

From the darkness, he saw the other two.

Aragorn smiled at her, taking her arm and leading her down the path along the neatly trimmed grass. She was handsome, especially when she smiled so openly at her companion.

Legolas’ eyes followed them, their pace languid, talking softly and smiling freely at one another.

Aragorn stopped suddenly and his head shot up to find Legolas standing there.

Legolas stood firm, unmoving.

Aragorn frowned, uttering something quietly to the woman. She nodded and continued walking, alone though, her arm resting over her swollen belly. Once she had gone through the side door into the manor, Aragorn looked at him expectantly.

But Legolas held his tongue.

“You’re wrong,” Aragorn told him and when Legolas still didn’t speak, Aragorn walked up to him, “You’re wrong.”

Legolas still didn’t speak.

Aragorn lost his patience and brushed past him.

Legolas let him go without word, watching his friend, nay his brother, push through the door inside where the woman had gone. With Aragorn no longer in his view he dropped his eyes to the ground with a shaky sigh.

He hoped he was wrong too.

Conceding and about to leave for the hall and supper, the animated sound of women came up from the path to the northern wing of the manor.

“Master Elf? What are you doing out here,” Eryndes asked gently, having left the group and walking towards him. Her arms filled with bundles of what must have been dried fruit from the smell wrapped in cloth, “Supper is inside.”

“I am about to go -,” he eyed the bundles held tightly to her chest, “You must be hungry.”

Perplexed, she followed his eyes then laughed, “Oh, dried fruit. They are for the cakes.”

“A little late to be making cake?”

She readjusted her overflowing burdens, “they need to soak the night.”

“I see,” but didn’t really.

“Well,” she smiled, “I best get these inside before I lose some.”

Reacting on instinct, he stepped after her, holding out his hand, “May I assist you?”

Eryndes stopped, and stared up at him blankly. Resetting the bundle in her arms, her head shook gently, “Thank you but I can manage.”

“No doubt you can,” he pressed, unwilling to give in so readily, “but I am presently unburdened.”

“It is very kind of you to offer but-.”

“Eryndes! Come on, I’m starving!”

She looked ahead to the woman, the midwife Gueniel calling after her and with a small smile left him.

“I meant I wanted to help you. It would have please me greatly to help you,” he murmured to himself as he glumly watched her hurry away to rejoin her companions.

Finally when he could see them no more he dropped his head with a low sigh. Legolas never deluded himself into thinking his venture would be easy.

Walking back into the hall, he also never considered it would be quite this hard.

“Where have you been?” Úrion waved him to the seat next to him, “Joust’s been regaling us with a tale of his latest conquest with some merchant’s wife.”

“I had to do something whilst protecting a bunch of wagons on a slow trail south,” Lobordir boasted.

Legolas took the seat, but stared in Aragorn’s direction. His friend avoided his stare and continued eating without pause.

“Why do you think I would care to hear of Joust’s latest depravity?” Legolas asked Úrion, his stare still in Aragorn’s direction.

Aragorn didn’t raise his head, not even when he grabbed for his mug of ale.

“Your keep him honest,” Úrion pushed a large wooden serving bowl towards him. “He knows he cannot lie without your seeing.”

“I thought you were betrothed,” Legolas bit out towards Lobordir, taking the ladle from the bowl, then put it back with a grimace; Brownish-blue and white chunks of meat in gelatinous mush. The smell was as inviting as it looked.

“Not yet,” Lobordir chimed in happily.

Legolas eyed the bowl. Sometimes not even his strict upbringing could force upon him foods which wouldn’t fail turn even a dog green.

“Not hungry?”

He looked at Úrion, his lined face watching him closely and filled with concern.

Alas though sometimes being a guest at a poor people’s table did. With something of an assuring air, Legolas retook the ladle and filled his plate - high.

“Put some vinegar and pepper on it,” Aragorn suggested quietly from his other side.

“Pepper is your answer to every dish,” Legolas commented as quietly, reaching for the vinegar.

“I notice you’ve stopped your tale about the merchant’s wife,” Úrion laughed at Lobordir, “Can I deduce once more you are full of fibs?”

Lobordir beamed at Legolas, “Sindar has not the taste for skirt-chasing. I’m not one to inflict my tales of conquest upon a friend.”

“Nor do I,” Aragorn muttered from beside him. Legolas found his friend had finally raised his head, looking at him.

Legolas held his stare.

“What is it?” Úrion asked, catching on to their odd exchange.

Aragorn went to answer but then stopped.

“A difference of opinion you may say,” Legolas offered them.

“Or an unforgiving gwador (honour brother),” Aragorn muttered.

Legolas raised his eyebrow and Úrion smirked, “Strider, as always you’re caught between two cultures.”

Lobordir pointed to Legolas, “And this one’s culture you’ve already failed.”

Aragorn’s head fell once more to return to his food, “Not at all. One cannot be of two cultures without conflict.”

“True,” Legolas took up a fork and prodded the mushy meat, “but preference would have been for something less . . . lecherous.”

“A few youthful indiscretions does _not_ make me a lecher,” Aragorn growled at him.

Legolas found it impossible not to huff, “You will forgive me if I do not agree.” His abhorrence of Aragorn’s less than pure past was valid. Had Aragorn been an elf, no amount of time would exonerate him and have been ostracised by _all_.

Aragorn took a long draught of ale, then levelled his glare at him, “You speak of forgiveness when you are as unforgiving as your father.” Pushing his empty plate away, he rose with a grave, ‘Good evening’, and left the table.

Legolas didn’t watch him leave. He did wish to follow, with all of his heart he wanted to follow and repair the rift. Apologise. Yet the smaller part, the part where he was his father’s son kept him rooted in his chair.

Aragorn may feel sore, but the suggestion Legolas was as resentful as his father left him raw.

A little too raw.

 

* * *

 

 

Eryndes was fond of walking after supper when her duties allowed her the liberty, and the health benefits were such she always made an example of it and encouraged others to join her.

None ever did. Her friends were busy putting children to bed, catching up of gossip, mending their husband’s torn clothing, or enjoying a mug or two of ale or a pot of tea in the great hall. They did not feel the health benefits of gentle exercise and fresh air after a meal was worth altering their evening routines.

So, as it was this night, Eryndes walked alone. Just as her mother had done.

Truly however alone was fine. Alone gave her time to wander without concern for pace or the upkeep of conversation and manners.

Alone, just like in her mother’s cottage to the south, she was free. Free as one like her could ever hope. A woman of the Dúnedain and a mistress of Carthal was never wholly free. But as her mother would’ve reminded her, with privilege comes duty, and until the day of her death, the mistress’s duty was never done.

Duty to king, duty to family and honour, duty to people, then only ever to be replaced by duty to husband and children.

The quiet nights walking around the wall of the compound was one respite allowed for her to indulge in and whereupon a lovely evening as it was this night, made her respite that much more sad.

With a bright moon her only companion, Eryndes wiped away the single tear clinging to her lashes and sang softly with a stubborn smile to crickets in the distance:

 

“Gentle breeze, scattered embers on moonlit water

Waking the cool breath of night

Silent stars shining down from eternal darkness

Frozen reflections of light

 

Golden sun rising out of a pale blue morning

Carries the summer along

Distant cries, seagulls dance in unending patterns

Echoes rejoice with their song

 

And for one moment in time

I hear a whisper of para-.”

 

Eryndes stopped and searched the darkness, “Is someone there?”

For many a moment her heart seemed the only noise competing with the crickets, but then a rustle whispered into her ears again. Then again.

With a gasp, Eryndes stepped back.

As if somehow her eyes had failed to see him, there he was; standing tall and proud, a mouthful of grass hanging from his teeth.

How had she not seen the great white horse standing not three metres from her? The animal was as white as snow!

“Aglarebon?” she carefully stepped towards him, fearful he was not there, but her eyes deceived or a spectre come to scare her. “Aglarebon? What are you doing out here?”

Aglarebon resumed his chewing and ducked his head for more. He didn’t warn her away and showed no cause for caution and so Eryndes carefully walked closer. With a hand reached out to the white brilliance hardly veiled from the darkness of the night, and slowly, tentatively touched him.

Her fingers and palm felt hair; he was real.

Eryndes let out her held breath loudly, “You gave me a scare. How did you get here?”

When Aglarebon didn’t show her any attention, she tried again, “(Why are you here? Is Sindar here too?)”

Aglarebon paused his eating, enough to lift his long face to look at her, but then resumed his supper.

“(You would not disregard me this way had I an apple),” she grumbled.

Aglarebon snorted and she believed him in complete agreement with her.

“Well,” she took his askew bridle, fixed it straight and started to lead him on, “Come, back to the stables with you.”

Aglarebon didn’t obey and with another snort, stepped away for a newer patch of grass, dragging her with him.

Eryndes returned his derisive snort, tugging hard on his bridle, “(Come, now! Do as you’re told!)”

Aglarebon lifted his head to stare at her.

“(Come!)” she repeated before losing her patience, (Now!)

At her snap his ears bent backward and he moved to follow her at once.

“(You only obey a firm tongue)?” she scoffed.

Aglarebon gave no hint of an answer and ate his last mouthful of grass as they walked.

“(What is wrong? You liked me the first time we met? Do I truly need an apple before you will warm to me)?”

Aglarebon walked beside her, silently, his awesome stature making her feel tiny. Then without warning he lowered his proud head and nudged her gently in the shoulder.

Eryndes smiled and pushed him away, “(Is that an apology? Too little too late.)

He snickered lightly and nudged her again.

“(You remind me of some men I know. When at first your apology doesn’t succeed, repeat and fully expect a different outcome).” Yet she did reach up and stroked his neck, “(You are your master’s horse. Stubborn, proud, prefer being alone in the darkness. Was it the moon calling you to wander or were you scolded)?”

Aglarebon twisted his long neck so his head was directly away from her.

“(Scolded then? There are better ways of finding solace than sulking and feasting in our oat field),” she soothed.

The lights from outside the manor grew in her sight and soon they’d come to the main road passed the brewery, carpenter’s workshop. 

Camaenor stood in the doorway of his armoury but offered no greeting. She hadn’t expected one. He stood silently, watching her as he drank from his ale mug.

Others were about at the front side of the manor. There was always folk about at all times. No part of the day went without guards standing watch.

Many of the folk going about either tending their duties and finishing their dues nodded to her in greeting and some even gave a questioning glance at the great horse at her side.

She shrugged at their questions; Eryndes didn’t know. Aglarebon seemed to be a force unto himself.

Almost to the main stable, Glavrol came striding, “There he is.”

“Misplaced something, Glavrol?”

Glavrol chuckled, “Not at all. Sindar says Aglarebon is unaccustomed to being cooped up in the stables and requires fresh air and the noises of trees to calm him. So we let him wander from time to time.”

“Wander? Freely?” Eryndes felt irritated by Glavrol’s careless attitude towards a lord’s horse, especially from a boy half her age, “He was not near the trees. I found him head down in the oat field feasting.”

“Aglarebon’s a fine spirit but sometimes enjoys creating an . . . atmosphere for his fellow stall-mates. After being suitably chastised earlier, he demanded his freedom to brood alone,” Glavrol took the reins from her with genuine affection on his youthful face, “(Did you enjoy your walk before the mistress saw fit to bring you back. Has your mood yet improved, young master)?”

“If he is so often afforded this freedom then why have I not seen him out before?”

Glavrol clucked his tongue and started plucking fastidiously at the few spear grass seeds caught in the horses long thick mane, “He chooses his days and times-”

“Is there a problem, ranger?”

Glavrol stood up straight and answered crisply, “Not at all Sindar.”

Eryndes watched Sindar come in closer, enough for her to see his face in the dim light.

Where the elf came from she couldn’t tell. Sindar’s brow rose at Glavrol.

Glavrol didn’t miss a beat and resumed fussing over Aglarebon, “Eryndes brought him back early, not knowing we allow him liberty.”

“I am sorry if-” she stopped, Sindar’s quick amusement speaking plainly her apology was completely unnecessary.

 “I’m surprised he allowed her to coax him back. He can be so stubborn.”

Sindar continued to stare at her, not taking his eyes from her to answer Glavrol, “Perhaps Aglarebon prefers the company of ladies whom are known to gift him with her apples.”

“Not at all,” she disputed, “He tried very hard to ignore me and as Glavrol said, he was obstinate about coming back.”

Sindar’s eyes fell away from her to the horse. “(Did he now)?” Well acquainted with his master’s stare, Aglarebon turned away in shame.

“He did try to buy my forgiveness with affection.”

“Was he successful?” Sindar asked her curiously.

“After the second attempt as I took pity on him.”

Sindar brought Aglarebon’s head back to face him, “(How fortunate the lady who gifts you with apples also has a forgiving heart. I would not have been so generous. You will show proper respect).” Sindar knocked his head to the side and the horse lowered his head but didn’t move. That he could invoke such reactions in the proud horse by just a look left her in awe. “(Now).”

Sindar’s quiet command had Aglarebon shooting  forward to obey but not without a groan of self-pity, and quickly made his way back into the stable.

“I will settle him in,” Glavrol followed Aglarebon into the stable.

Eryndes watched them go with amazement, “I wish I could do that.”

“I have no doubt of your commanding any,” his words coming softly through the cool air, “if you should wish it.”

Startled, she turned back to Sindar to find him looking at her, “How do you mean?”

He didn’t answer for a moment, and she felt once more like she was trapped in his blinkless eyes. But then he shifted on his feet and broke the trance, “Nothing. Just idle thoughts. It is a habit for you to walk the grounds so late at night?”

“Oh,” she smiled, “Yes, I guess you might call it a habit. I always encouraged others to join me but thus far-,” she gestured to the lack of company with a shrug.

“Then shall I join you?”

Heat rose to her cheeks but how could she refuse? Not in proper manner anyway. “Alas I am on my way back to retire-“

“Another time then,” Sindar cut in with a gentle smile and the Earth stopped.

“Tomorrow evening?” she hastily offered without thinking.

“I look forward to it,” Sindar’s smile continued to keep her captive, “Good evening.”

He waited long enough for her to reciprocate and then left just as silently as he came.

Tomorrow evening? Eryndes could kick herself. Why did she offer? Aragorn bade her to befriend him but surely Sindar would have nothing to speak about with the likes of her? Even worse, what conversation could she possible offer that would be of any interest to him? Certainly not her culinary plans for the next week.

And what was that about her commanding any? Idle and silly thoughts indeed! A laugh as quiet as a murmur and perhaps a little unnerved snuck from her throat.

Although having said she was on her way to retire, she no longer felt tired and more than a bit thrown off her balance. Instead Eryndes decided to head for the kitchen. There was always some labour to be done and as her mother always loved to preach; nothing cured a trouble mind like labour.

As she walked, her eyes looked back in the direction where Sindar had disappeared back into the darkness.

Sindar was lucky to be an elf, for if her were a man, she’d most certainly think him truly _odd_.


	12. Best Laid Plans . . . (Part Two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Song: Lullaby From a Distant Land by Forest Elves

Humming forcibly rather than joyfully, Eryndes stopped to wipe her brow.

The kitchen door swung open, “Eryndes, what on Earth are you doing here at this hour?”

Eryndes wiped the other side of her brow and continued her work without glancing up, “We have the games day two days hence.”

Foruyndes chuckled as she moved about the kitchen doing what she knew not, “My mind is old and failing, but there’s nothing wrong with my memory.”

Eryndes bit her lip, “I meant tomorrow will be chaotic, everyone will be so busy preparing the feast.”

“Yes?” Foruyndes questioned, this time from the other side of the kitchen.

“If most of tomorrow’s meals are prepared now, much time could be saved for other tasks.”

When the aged woman didn’t respond, Eryndes looked up to search the kitchen. The door to the pantry was open, “Foruyndes?”

“So you are making Buckwheat?” her voice came out through the pantry.

“Yes. We have surplus and I know it is not everyone’s favourite-“

“But it’s an economical meal and saves our stores for the party,” Foruyndes cut in coming back out of the pantry, her arms laden with bottles, sacks and one of her small pitchers of wine.

Eryndes eyed the pitcher as Foruyndes emptied her arms down onto the bench beside her. “What are you doing?”

“You cannot make enough Buckwheat for everyone by yourself, not unless you plan on commandeering the kitchen until the sun reaches midday?”

Eryndes was about to argue, but her mouth slackened and she looked down at her work, “Perhaps I had not thought this through.”

She hadn’t. After her encounter with Sindar her mind had been a little . . . occupied. This time it seemed her mother’s advice regarding labour had not rung true.

“Buckwheat demands a long night of labour, as you well know.”

Closing her eyes, Eryndes took a deep breath and started rubbing the mix off her fingers.

“There’s no need to be so dramatic, darling girl. I will help you,” she gestured to the littered bottles and sacks she’d brought from the pantry, “I will help you. Eru may shine on us and indeed allow us an hour’s sleep before the sun rises and we’re hounded to quit the kitchen for the preparation of breakfast.”

“Thank you.” Warmth tickled her heart and Eryndes smiled fondly, “Why the wine?”

Foruyndes nudged her side good-humouredly, “Every old woman has her magic elixir. Muscat aged longer than your shadows casted along these halls will keep the candles burning and our fingers nimble.”

“It has been a vast many years since you and I have gruelled through an all-nighter. Even then, not once has _Muscat_ been present.”

Foruyndes clucked her tongue and went to the crockery cupboards, “At my age, what’s the point preserving all the bounties of life? Best to enjoy now, while the rooster still rises to waken these old bones.”

A pang quietly ached out from the depths of Eryndes’ breast, “A good lesson for all.”

Slapping three small goblets down on the bench, Foruyndes popped out the pitcher’s cork with a hiss between her teeth, “You’re far too young to be so concerned. These are lessons for old women.”

Eryndes broke away from the old woman’s kind reproach and changed the subject, “Why three, Foruyndes?”

“For our visitor who should be along shortly.”

She frowned, “It is very late. Who else bar you or I comes to the kitchen so late? Even Sali is loathed to enter the kitchen after supper.”

Foruyndes grinned broadly, her face light as though a decade of toil had been lifted from her wrinkles, “My young _laddie_. He’s not much for sleeping and comes to woo me for biscuits and tea.”

“Young laddie?” Eryndes asked while biting the inside of her cheek trying not to laugh. “Do I know him?”

“You do, but keep those pretty eyes to yourself. He comes to see me and my assortment of snaps and butters. Old Foruyndes knows how to keep ‘em coming to her door.”

Eryndes took the goblet of wine gratefully and queried lightly, “What does he look like?”

“Oh, so very fair your eyes weep at their unworthiness.”

Her lip shifted and she could not bear not smiling any longer, “Of course he would be. Let us hope he will be willing to aid in our cooking.”

“Alas he does not cook.”

Eryndes laughed but was careful to keep her laugh friendly and not judgemental. It was difficult sometimes though, “They never do.”

_Especially if they weren’t real._

“Very well, very well. You continue there and I shall get the boilers going. We cannot be idly talking all night and get nought done.”

With a small laugh, Eryndes held up her goblet, “Do you not have a toast of wisdom first?”

“Even stale bread becomes breadcrumbs!”

Eryndes giggled and tapped her glass against Foruyndes’. They worked in comfortable silence as the moon rose outside the kitchen window and the wind picked up and blew anything not tied down asunder.

And just passed midnight, the mix of a long day and too much wine, and having fallen asleep for the fourth time, Foruyndes finally shooed her out the kitchen door to bed, promising she would finish.

With the help of her Laddie, when he finally came knocking.

An hour before dawn, Eryndes quietly walked to the kitchen for tea, check on the progress of tonight’s supper, and perhaps a little nibble before heading out to check on the herb garden after all the wind of last night. She was sure much of the tender autumn growth would be torn and thrown about.

Going through the kitchen door, she was surprised to find Foruyndes still in there. Her labours had ceased thankfully though, for the old woman sat in her particular armchair by the fire, a blanket well tucked around her and a mug of tea lay forgotten on the table beside her.

Foruyndes gently snored in peaceful slumber.

With a gentle shake of her shoulder, her snores came to an abrupt halt and eyes opened. “Am I dead?”

Eryndes shook her head, “Not this day. Why have you slept in the kitchen? I warned against it; your armchair is no friend to your back.”

Foruyndes rolled her neck and rubbed her face, “I was helping my laddie.”

Eryndes sighed.

“Don’t screw up your face like that! Do you want a face like mine? Wrinkles don’t go away, you know.”

“Yes, indeed,” Eryndes left her at the fire and went to put a kettle to fire. “I will make tea and you can tell me how you and your laddie went last night finishing the buckwheat.”

“We went very well, thank you,” the old woman answered tartly.

Eryndes, having spent most of the night listening to the wind bang the shutters of one of her neighbour’s windows without relief, was in little humour to indulge the woman’s fantasies any longer, “But pray, I thought your laddie was no cook.”

Foruyndes heaved herself out of her chair, “He isn’t. But I have decided to teach him. He has quite the nose for herbs and spices.”

“I am sure,” putting the water to boil on the fire, Eryndes went to the boilers of cooling buckwheat-, “What is _this_?”

Coming up beside her, Foruyndes peeked over the rim of the boiler, “That’s it. Try it. I think you’ll be as surprised as I was.”

“Surprised at what? This is not what-,” she stammered, and wondered if Foruyndes’ mind had finally gone over the rise. Opening another boiler, then another-, “Where is the buckwheat, our traditional recipe-?”

Foruyndes actually grinned, “We changed it.”

“Who changed it? Please do not say your laddie-“

“I was making our traditional recipe and he asked why it was so bland. He went through the entire pantry, pulling out spices and herbs to make it smell right. And for the soak? Milk, butter and eggs! Genius!”

With a long, long sigh, Eryndes pinched the bridge of her nose, “Foruyndes, you cannot experiment when there are three hundred mouths to feed. And with this quantity? I cannot begin to say how surprised I am at you. That you would waste so much food on a whim.”

“Taste it.”

“No, no. This is my fault. I should never have left you alone last night. That was unkind of me.”

“Taste it.”

“But what am I going to serve now? We have nothing ready that’s not already earmarked. There are the stores, but what would everyone say? There is no excuse for delving into our winter stores so early-“

“Eryndes,” Foruyndes cut in sharply. “Will you be silent and yield my simple request?”

Feeling heat rising to her cheeks, Eryndes saw the sternness in the old woman’s face, the fire in her eyes. Not since she’d been a little girl and learning her first dishes at Foruyndes’ instruction had she been scolded. Nor to see Foruyndes so firm and serious.

Taking a discarded wooden spoon from the bench, she did as she was told. The buckwheat didn’t look terrible but was far to light in colour.

Too smooth and creamy.

Bracing herself she brought the spoon to her mouth-

Her eyes widened but then closed as she savoured the smooth buttery flavour, the subtle hints of different spices playing on her tongue and a mellow sweetness of dark sugar.

“My laddie has quite the sweet tooth.”

Eryndes swallowed then giggled like a child, “This is delicious. Your _laddie’s_ sweet tooth is well founded. I sincerely apologise for doubting you.” Digging in, she brought a larger mouthful to her lips. Then another. Then another-

“Control yourself,” Foruyndes snatched the wooden spoon from her, “It’s very rich. You don’t want to go spoiling your figure, do you?”

“Why not?” she took back the spoon stubbornly and went for more, “Perhaps I do not need love for happiness, only the contents of this boiler.”

“You’re being silly, Eryndes.”

“Have you named your dish?” she all but cooed, spooning at the buckwheat with desire.

“It’s not just my making, I told you. But we did name it.”

“You and your laddie?”

“That’s right. We call it Woodland Buckwheat.”

Eryndes stopped, the spoon dropping back into the boiler with a plop, “Woodland?”

“Aye.”

“ _Woodland_?”

“Aye, that’s right.”

“Do you mean-?” she ran out of words. Breathing in trying to calm the calamity in her heart she forced herself to speak, “Sindar? Your laddie? Is _Sindar_?”

“Indeed, he is.”

“You said he was young!”

Foruyndes laughed deeply, “He would tell you age is not merely time but temperament.”

“You allowed an elf, a _lord_ to toil in the kitchen? Like a servant? He is our _guest_! He is a lord and our guest!”

“I was tired and he offered to help,” she sniffed. “He has none of your foolish notions about lords or guests not helping tired old women. Besides, you saw him helping out with the butchering-”

“Something I would never have agreed upon in private.”

“But you would not deny it publically? Are you so inescapably consumed with decorum?”

Speechless, Eryndes looked back to the stove full of a dozen boilers, filled with _Woodland Buckwheat_. “Be truthful, Foruyndes. Just how many times have you allowed Sindar to cook his own food?”

Angrily Foruyndes shuffled back away from her, “Don’t speak to me as if I was a child. I was wiping your tears and your backside as a babe-”

“Foruyndes.”

The old woman turned and walked away.

“He is not one of us,” she called after her. “How would you explain your lack of propriety to Strider?”

“Why, _Fuieryn_ , so nice to have you back in my kitchen.”

Eryndes recoiled as if she’d been struck, “My mother would never stand for this. Yet you expect it of me?”

“She would be so proud of you.”

Hot anger welled up inside her, “You are being nasty.”

“And you as unbearably proper as she ever was,” Foruyndes sniffed loudly, and sat back down beside the fire. “For once in your life, would it kill you to do something inappropriate?”

Eryndes wanted badly to turn away and leave the kitchen, seek the comfort of her gardens until her anger at Foruyndes cooled. But what good would that do?

No, it was Eryndes’ duty to see to this. All of Foruyndes’ errors were hers to bear as Mistress, as was all at Carthal.

Quietly she walked over and sat in the spare armchair.

“My mother had reasons as do I,” she gently explained, “She felt the house needed strict decorum, to be as lordly as any house with a title.”

“Such was her obsession! She’s spun you so tight to follow in her example.”

Eryndes squeezed her eyes shut a moment, “You know that is not true. I am not my mother, not by half,” the throat caught.

“Fuieryn was a hard woman,” Foruyndes reached over to take her wrist in a surprisingly strong grip, “be grateful not ashamed.”

“Foruyndes,” she quietly said, allowing the words about her mother fall away without paying them any thought, “No more lords cooking or anything else. If I find out Mydedis has him washing clothes-”

“He asked. You want me to be rude and refuse?”

“Of course not,” she replied quickly, trying hard not to think of her _appointment_ that evening which her unwillingness to be rude had gained her. Taking a long, deep breath, Eryndes watched the fire for awhile. “All right,” she quietly gave in. “But please, nothing else. Strider has asked for us to make his friend comfortable here, not to put him to work.”

 

* * *

 

 

The morning saw Legolas endure another quiet meal; breakfast was a quick affair when mouths were used purely for eating. Even Lobordir and Úrion remained quiet.

The patrol was just as uncomfortable as breakfast.

It was completely ridiculous. They’d been down that emotional road far too many times over their sixty year friendship.

Yet each time Legolas attempted to breach the distance between them, Aragorn grew even more distant.

They knew each other far too well. They knew every chink to the other’s armour and where to plunge the knife. Words spoken in haste required time to soothe the sting.

However Aragorn appeared to need a longer span of time than usual.

After the patrol, he and Aragorn worked with their chosen elite scouts under the giant pear trees where yesterday they had recited tales to children. The grass was short and well maintained for a few exercises in hand to hand combat, both armed and unarmed. Although the scouts primary mission was reconnoitre and evasion, Aragorn and he both strongly agreed it was best they all were thoroughly prepared for any eventuality.

Today however the lesson was theory and they’d been out there for hours already.

Some of the rangers were becoming irritable.

They weren’t the only ones. Legolas felt the same nagging at the back of his mind all day. It was becoming maddening.

“Why are we learning about anatomy?” Faron bellyached and not for the first time, “Stick a knife in its heart and its dead.”

Legolas ground his teeth, and nor for the first time either.

“What if your enemy has on thick armour?” Aragorn asked flatly, “or some other defence you cannot penetrate with a knife?”

“Go for its eyes or better yet, take its head off.”

“There are far taller creatures in the world than the Dúnedain.” Legolas crossed his arms over his chest, “How do you intend to take off a Gundabad orc’s head from a lower position or a trolls when you cannot reach?”

Faron reluctantly conceded and gestured impatiently, “Well, tell us then. Some of us don’t live as long as others. How do _you_ take down trolls.”

“Faron,” Aragorn cut in, “Stand up. You’ll be our troll.”

Trîw sniggered, “The resemblance is remarkable.”

“Be silent,” Cordoves shot Trîw a scathing look. She was a serious woman and had little patience for Trîw’s tomfoolery.

Legolas pulled one of his knives from his back but it was Aragorn who spoke, “The troll’s anatomy is about as you’d expect; blood runs through arteries and without blood it cannot survive. The trolls’ hide is thick, cave often considered the thickest of all. Without machines of metal, you can forget about taking an arm or a leg to induce blood loss. Sindar?”

Legolas tapped at Faron’s shoulder, just above his armpit, “Major blood lost from a deep slash or arrow. Death or unconscious in under ten minutes. Longer for arrows-”

“Ten minutes?” Laeron asked in surprise. “Ten minutes against a _troll_?”

Legolas’ eyes caught a disturbance in amongst the trees to the left this time but forcibly returned his focus to the class.

“Which is why you’ll need to be precise and concentrate on the best targets to gain time,” Aragorn nodded to Legolas.

“Hits to the head may disorientate, but the skin is almost as hard as the back. Any hit to the head would have to be highly significant to gain any advantage.” Legolas tapped Faron’s belly, “But if you are able to get through its hide with multiple slashes, enough to spill its innards-” he stopped, this time to look back at the ranger coming running up from the manor.

“Yes, Ravonor?” Aragorn asked the young ranger.

“Strider, Geledir and Amben, they request your assistance. Coston and Parf are at it again.”

Legolas felt himself frown. “Is not Úrion or Lobordir on duty to see to drunken squabbles?”

Ravonor looked at him blankly, “Geledir said to get Strider.”

Aragorn rubbed his face slowly, “Has Coston been drinking?”

Ravonor nodded. “Parf claims the fight rightful for his sister’s protection.”

“Arradis?” Cordoves spoke up, getting quickly to her feet. "She is hurt?"

“She’s with Nestdôl now.”

“Very well,” Aragorn nodded to the ranger and he looked at the group, “We’ve probably been here long enough as it is. We’ll continue tomorrow.”

Legolas’ mouth dropped and he moved to interject but Aragorn ignored him and their group dispersed with Cordoves practically running towards the manor.

Well, not all. Laeron and Baradon stayed back.

“Are you two looking to polish apples?” Legolas snapped at them.

Of course it did no good; Laeron’s grin was as unflappable as his father’s and Baradon simply shrugged, “We just want to know how many trolls you’ve fought?”

The tap in his consciousness sparked again, itching his eyes to seek out the intruder but he _tried_ to give his full attention to his eager students and be civil, “Not today, Baradon-” his head turned  instinctively to the side just in time to catch a glimpse of the one who was the cause of his own irritability; the small shape diving under the old wagon three hundred metres away.

“Sindar, what is it?” Laeron asked him.

His eyes searched the wagon sitting abandoned near the stone wall, but could not see her directly, “There is a young girl who continues to follow me. I noticed her during the days of the festival, but since my return yesterday, I have not had a moments peace.”

Baradon nodded, “That is probably Briel, Geledir’s daughter. You know Geledir, stock Master? Briel and her mother accompany him when duty requires him here. They live not far from Fuieryn’s cottage.”

Legolas rubbed the back of his neck.

“You’re not ill, are you?” Laeron asked innocently.

His glare at the boy was answer enough and demanded from Baradon, “But why does the child stalk me?”

“Well, she is quite the artist; loves drawing, charcoal, even paint when in supply. Her’s is an unrivalled talent. Most likely she wants to draw you and is too scared to come and ask.”

Laeron chuckled, “You’re frightening to little girls.”

Legolas narrowed his eyes at the younger man, whilst still speaking to Baradon, “Why would she want to draw me?”

Baradon shrugged, “Perhaps she seeks a fresh face. She’s already drawn the rest of us many times over.” Looking over to where Legolas had been searching, he smiled, “whether we all wanted her to or not. She‘s become very good at stalking; caught many a folk in less than appropriate situations. Just ask Joust. She’d make an excellent hunter in a few more years.”

“Not good enough for an elf, it seems,” said Laeron pointed out. “You should speak to her, let her know it bothers you.”

Legolas looked back at the wagon. Laeron was right; he should go speak to the child. It was just . . .

He looked back at the two men, or more correctly, one boy and one even younger boy. Opening his mouth he then closed it again.

He could ask Aragorn? But no. Not in their present tiff.

“Sindar?” Baradon asked.

“I will deal with this,” he walked away from them towards the manor, “now before I lose my wits.”

 

* * *

 

 

Taking a breath, then another, Legolas rolled his tense shoulders and approached her discreetly.

Watching her at her work, he took another calming breath, “Would you welcome some assistance?”

Eryndes looked up at him, her hand shading her eyes as he had approached her with the mid afternoon sun behind him, “Oh, Master Elf,” she greeted him with a smile of disbelief, “You wish to help me?”

For the second time in twenty four hours his attempt to help had the opposite effect he’d hoped. Did none amongst the Dúnedain ever offer to help a lady? “Does my offer offend you?”

She blanched, “Of course. Forgive me, it is just, well I, you are, you should not. What I mean is, men never offer to help.”

“I am not a man.”

Eryndes opened her mouth then said with a nod, “Yes, that is true.”

“There is nothing else for me to do at this particular moment.” He held his breath and waited.

And make him wait she did, and he saw the conflict in her eyes. Surely what he’d asked was not so troubling? Perhaps he should have just waited until their prearranged evening walk later that night? But no, Legolas would not taint the occasion by having to explain why there was a child following them during their walk.

Finally, with her free hand she motioned to the seat opposite her at the table, “Please.”

Legolas took the proffered seat at the bench, every muscle in his body feeling stiff. Eryndes passed him two bowls; a large one with pea pods and a smaller empty one.

Legolas took one of the pods, twirled it around, studying it.

“Foruyndes told me of your assistance in the kitchen last night.”

He didn’t answer, preferring not having to explain how the Dúnedain version of buckwheat tasted to him like moistened saw dust. Instead he studied the pea. He’d eaten them, he’d even seen them grow in passing, and yet he’d not once thought of how to remove them from the pod.

“Her praise was high and even said you had quite the skill-”

“She exaggerates.” Should he use his knife?

When Eryndes spoke no more, he drew his eyes from the pea-pod to her. She wasn’t looking at him, instead seeing to her own shelling, her hands so fluidic in their work it was hypnotic. But he needed to speak. It was the reason he’d come seeking her. Staring at her hands, he quietly told her, “I am humbled to admit I know nothing of cooking.”

Eryndes’ looked up at him.

“Apart from tossing a kill to flame, I am at the mercy of others.”

She looked back down, “I hope our simple foods are not too distasteful-”

“They are adequate.” He then sighed, frustrated, “I mean to say I make no complaint. Foruyndes simply allowed me to indulge in a taste of my home.”

“Of course but if ever you should ever wish for us to make something more to your liking-”

“Please,” he stopped her, “No preferential favour,” he thought for a moment, thinking hard for something to ease along their conversation. Something amusing? “Unless whatever that was last night is served again. What was that?”

Her head rose slower this time, and answered warily, “Jellied eels.”

Legolas shuddered and for a moment he thought she might have laughed.

Her eyes smiled for her instead, “I am sorry-”

“Do not distress,” he smirked, still a little tensely, “If I can drink ale, gelatinous clumps of mud-dwelling fish should pose me no discomfort.”

“Yes?” he asked, feeling amusement bubbling when she bit down on her lip.

At his question the smile she’d tried to hide broke free, “You drink urulas tea for ale.”

His grin was easier this time, “So I do.”

When she returned to the peas, he watched her. But she didn’t seem inclined to talk more. Perhaps his question, nay his request would have to wait after-all. Picking up the pod once more, he studied it intimately. Her fingers squeezed, twisted and pulled all seemingly at the same time. There was a seam, so surely that was where he had to press-

“Was there something you wanted to ask me, Master Elf?”

“Indeed,” he said offhandedly, “How do I get them out?”

He looked over at her when she laughed unexpectedly, “I meant, you seemed as if you had something on your mind.”

“Other than legumes?”

“Yes.”

Legolas held up the pod, “Will you show me how to do this first? I will not be outwitted by peas.”

With a vibrant chuckle, she reached over to cradle his hand in her smaller dainty ones. “Hold it along here,” she placed the length of the pod across his palm, then put his thumb on top, “press the tip of your thumb into the seam until it pops open. See? Then insert your thumb and slip them out.”

The warm touch of her delicate fingers sent tingles up his arm, “Does it strike you as odd I know not how to do this?”

“Not at all,” she let go of him, “Our men know very little of cooking. Aragorn has never offered to shell peas.”

“Because they believe all menial work should be done by women?”

“Just so,” she scoffed in jest.

Legolas pressed down on the seam as she’d shown him, “Such sentiments are unjust in the eyes of elves.”

“Then I would very much like to see the kitchens of the elf-king.”

“If that would interest you,” he agreed doubtfully, slipping his thumb awkwardly inside the pod, “Though I fail to see why.”

Eryndes grinned with a slight shake of her head, and a small lock of hair escaped its pin, falling across her forehead, “I have heard the tables in Thranduil’s halls are the finest kept in Middle Earth, serving bounties of rare delicacies and extravagance.”

The wonder in her eyes did not make him proud, “They are not so extravagant.” It wasn’t a lie if he didn’t think the foods he’d been raised on as _extravagant_.

“You have dined with your king?”

Legolas swallowed covertly, “I have.”

Eryndes eyes shone as she asked, “But never anything like jellied-eels?”

Slowly he smiled, “Indeed, never.”

Sharing his smile for a brief moment, Eryndes then returned to her work and he contented himself watching her. Yet, his reason for seeking her out burned to be spoken.

“I have a service to ask of you.”

Replacing the latest pod into a bowl, she gave him her full attention, “Ask away.”

“The child, Briel,” he started, a new feeling of discomfort making him shift in his seat, “I would speak with her.”

“Yes?” she pressed patiently.

Again he shifted on the hardwood, “but I fear frightening her.”

“Frightening her?”

Legolas dropped his eyes to the pod in his hand, “I am . . . unaccustomed to children.”

Finally he lifted his gaze and found no mockery or tease in her regard but simple patience, “Because you wish to stop her drawing you? She draws everyone, you know.”

“On the contrary,” he negated quickly, “I care not if she draws me. I only wish for her to stop tailing me.”

Eryndes sat back, “Does it upset you so?”

“Not in the way you perhaps think,” he said carefully, “This sneaking about is,” he paused looking for the right word, “irritating.” He continued on with haste, “I mean that in the least conceited way.” Legolas implore for her to understand, “My hearing and sight is unsurpassed; I see and hear in ways you cannot comprehend or possibly imagine. Unless I am largely distracted, not much escapes my notice. Suspicious movement, _any_ suspicious movement and I focus to it without thought.

“The girl’s constant sneaking,” he sighed in defeat, “It is _irritating_. If I were mortal, I would believe my head broken from the pounding.”

For another moment she continued to frown but at least she was sitting forward again, “Though I cannot claim to understand how your eyes and ears work, it does sound irritating.”

“Very irritating; a bee inside my skull would be a welcome respite.” He leant in to the table, “Please understand I do not care if all of the children wish to draw me, but for my sanity they need to stop stalking me.”

Eryndes gave a small nod and took up her work once more, “I will speak with her.”

Legolas was tempted to let that be the end of it, but . . . “Thank you, but I would prefer to speak with her myself. The children,” he paused, watching her fingers take another pod, and admitted quietly, “I do not wish them to fear me.”

“Why should the children fear you?”

Taking up another himself, he fiddled with rather than plucked, “I have heard it said mortals unaccustomed to my kind find our unblinking gaze – uncomfortable. More so, my inexperience with children- I have never had much cause to speak with any, at least directly. I fear my,” he shifted again, “awkwardness might be seen as hostile.”

For a pause, Eryndes didn’t answer and he raised his eyes to hers. There was no scorn or ridicule, and she did not laugh at him as he might have feared. Gently she smiled at him, “Where is she now?”

All of the tension fell from his shoulders and with his eyes he swept to the left, “Behind the stack of wood.”

“So close?” her eyes widened in surprise and looked toward the wood pile, “Briel? Briel, if you are not otherwise engaged, we may be grateful for your help.”

Legolas blinked with alarm. He could have easily called out to the child himself.

Eryndes, though, gave him a reassuring glance and a tiny shake of her head.

“All right,” a small childlike voice came from the woodpile and the young girl stood up. “Did you really know I was here the whole time?”

“Come, girl. Show us how much quicker you are at shelling peas than our good Sindar here,” Eryndes grinned at him. Following her eyes down to the bowl in front of him, he grimaced. She was correct; he had not shelled more than five this whole time.

Briel came to the table to take the spare chair beside Eryndes, her eyes fixed on him. “It was you who saw me?”

“Manners girl,” Eryndes admonished taking the girl's hands, “And you will not be touching any of our food with hands like these.”

The girl shrugged, “Charcoal. I’ll go wash.”

“Wait a moment,” Eryndes took the girl’s shoulder. “Sindar here has taken an interest in you.”

Legolas nodded stiffly, “Yes, that is correct.”

The girl blushed and fidgeted with her book and charcoal, “You want me to stop drawing you, don’t you?”

Legolas forced his lips up to a small uncomfortable smile, “That is not the case.”

Eryndes nodded at him encouragingly.

Opening his mouth, he forced the words out, “I would, very much like to,” he paused, “see your work. I understand you are considered a talent.”

The girl’s eyes looked up to him and nodded but no more convinced than he. Taking the book in her hands she slid it across to him, “I am sure no drawing of mine could hold a candle against those done by elves.”

Legolas flicked open the book. The charcoal was crude but the drawings were surprising very lifelike. “Nonsense,” he appraised earnestly, “your reputation is clearly well deserved.” There were drawings of birds, horses, sheep and perhaps a dozen and a half of the Dúnedain of all ages. Towards the end of the book there were more than a dozen drawings of him, but they were far cruder with many mistakes rubbed away probably accounting for the state of her hands. “These were obviously drawn while you practiced your stalking technique.”

He returned the book to her, “Do you not think it wiser to draw a position of comfort?”

The girl looked surprised and shot a glance towards Eryndes before answering him, “You would let me draw you?”

“If you wish to do so, I have no objection. But first you must promise to stop stalking me. No more hiding.”

“I promise,” Briel’s face lit up into a huge smile, “Can I start now?”

Legolas looked to Eryndes who was silently watching them. “I do believe you are required to show me how quick you are shelling peas?”

“With those hands?” Eryndes gestured to the girl’s blackened hands, “No. You two go, I can finish here.”

Briel stood up instantly, her young face eager to begin.

Legolas did not rise and shook his head, “No, child. Duty comes before pleasure. Did you not promise your aid?” He picked up another pod, “You had best wash quickly, whilst you still have the light for drawing.”

“I’ll be right back!”

“You need not have worried,” Eryndes commented, watching the girl running towards the manor, knocking into just about everyone in her haste.

Legolas instead watched Eryndes, her nimble fingers breaking and emptying the pods with practiced ease. He studied her fingers, her fingers, her hands, so small yet efficient, and tried to mimic hers with only a slight success, “She was defensive; scared.”

“Most children are scared of adults. To them we are intimidating, and we do make the rules,” she explained, “It is up to the adults to make them feel comfortable.”

“How do I make her feel comfortable?”

“You already have,” she commended him keenly, “Children respond well to a firm but kind hand. You are a natural.”

“I believe you are trying to be kind,” Legolas found himself carefully returning her smile, “But I thank you for your assistance.”

She beamed at him, “And I believe you would have done well without me.” She turned to her left as Briel all but fell into the seat with enthusiasm. “That was quick. I pray you used soap.”

“I did,” she drawled, grabbing a handful of pods and eagerly begun shelling. “Sindar? May I ask you questions?”

Legolas raised an eyebrow, “ _Questions_? How many questions could you have?”

“Oh, lots and lots.”

He blinked, “Very well.”

“Well,” she hesitated, “Are all wood elves as handsome as you?”

Legolas opened his mouth to utter his response, once he had found a one. This was what the child wanted to know?

“Briel,” Eryndes reproved mildly. “Where are your manners today? Ask your questions politely and with sense.”

Legolas found his voice at last, “I am from the Woodland realm, however I am not a wood elf,” he explained to her smoothly, “The Dúnedain call me Sindar because that is what I am, Sinda.”

“But do they all look like you?” Briel obviously had no understanding of the distinction between Sylvan and Sindar.

Legolas shook his head, “The Sylvan are different to Sindar. Their colouring is more akin to the earth. We Sindar are called grey elves for many reasons but most obvious to others is our grey eyes. Most have gold or platinum hair.”

“And they have the same look like yours?”

“Look like mine?”

The girl gave him an impatient look, “Strange looking bird-like eyes. All unblinking and icy.”

Eryndes’ jaw dropped but Legolas surprised both of them by laughing. The child’s manner was becoming as entertaining as it was tactless. “Is that how you would describe them?”

“Yes,” Briel nodded, “but real pretty, especially when you laugh as you just did.”

Out of the corner of his eye Eryndes pursed her lips. “Thank you Briel. To answer your question, yes. Elves do not need to blink. Though whether any would appreciate being likened to birds, I cannot say.”

“And you sleep with your eyes open?”

“We do.”

“You eat meat, why? I thought elves didn’t eat animals.”

“Some choose not to, but such is their luxury. There are many elven realms that do not possess such luxuries and eat what is available.”

“Mirkwood has no luxury?”

“Eryn _Lasgalen,”_ he corrected mildly, “is a vast wood with many luxuries but to farm enough food for all who live there would require clearing of much of the forest we love. Instead we create and craft items to trade for gold and thus buy most of food we require.”

“There are no farms?”

“Some clearings have been used for plantations, but again the harvest is insignificant to our requirements. So we trade for meat, cheese and grains for baking.”

“But not venison or jellied eels?”

Legolas sat back in his seat, “You _have_ been paying attention.”

“But why not?”

He gestured to her, “I am sure there are foods you do not enjoy eating.”

“Pumpkin,” she made a face, “Makes me want to vomit-”

“Briel!” Eryndes stopped her.

“-makes me feel ill,” Briel corrected quickly with a grimace in Eryndes’ direction.

“We are all entitled to a small measure of _spoiled_ tastes,” Eryndes murmured quietly.

Briel grinned and continued, “How many children do you have?”

“I have none.”

Briel’s face fell, “None? Why not? How can you be so _old_ and not have any children?”

Eryndes groaned, “Briel.”

Legolas however was not offended; only mortals considered being thought old as an insult. “Simple, child. I am not married.”

“You’re not? But everyone gets married.”

“Not everyone,” Eryndes said firmly.

Briel huffed but then plucked up her enthusiasm once more, “Do the Sindar sing as well as wood elves? I have heard it said the wood elves have the most beautiful voices in all of Middle Earth.”

Legolas shrugged, finally finishing another pod and picking up the next, “Some do.”

“Do you? Will you not sing for us?”

He paused, “Nay. I do not sing.”

“Oh,” she looked down in disappointment, but only for a brief heartbeat, “Do you think the Dúnedain can sing as well as the Sylvan? Eryndes is the best but would she be good enough to sing amongst the wood elves?”

Eryndes stiffened, “Briel-”

“I think you are mistaken, child,” Legolas spoke gently, feeling his stomach become as jelly-like as last night's eels, “I do not believe even the Sylvan to be her equal.”

He could feel Eryndes’ eyes on him but continued to address the beaming girl, “However, I am not an expert on such things and can only speak my opinion.” Finally he could bare it no longer and chanced a glance. Eryndes stared at him, pretty blush to her cheeks, her mouth open in surprise.

The warmth in his breast grew fiercely and the pea-pod dropped from his fingers.

“What about drawing? Can you draw?”

“I have not drawn since I was very young,” he turned back to Briel, unsure if he was disappointed or glad she’d spoken and broken the enchantment he’d fallen under. “Even then I had no discernible talent.”

“If you have not tried since you were a child then how do you know you cannot? I could teach you to draw and you could learn to sing with Eryndes,” she grinned, “You should stop being a warrior all the time and do something fun.”

“Briel,” Eryndes’ voice was becoming firmer. “You do not tell others what they should or should not do.”

Briel looked to her then down to the bowl, picking at the peas instead of shelling them in quiet self-pity.

“Perhaps I have not attempted for many years but I do not think time would have improved my ineptitude,” Legolas explained. “However ‘ _being a warrior all the time’_ does not stop me from enjoying the gifts of others. I would be pleased to continue to see your drawings.”

Briel looked up at him and smiled happily, “And Eryndes will sing for you.”

Looking at the woman he gave a small nod, “If it pleases Eryndes to sing, it pleases me to listen.”

“And it makes shelling peas go a lot faster,” Briel leaned into Eryndes’ side, “Does it not?”

Eryndes looked at him pointedly but he gave no hint of dissuasion. 

Having receiving no help, she breathed out in forfeit, “Oh very well. Briel, you will sit up straight and join in.”

“But-“ Briel started to protest.

“Do not argue,” Eryndes said quite firm, sliding over another bowl of unshelled peas to Legolas. Legolas was beginning to improve his shelling and was pleased to see he had in fact finished his first bowl. Considering the filled barrels behind Eryndes, he still had a long way to go.

“But you do not make him sing!” she complained.

A scoff broke from his lips, “And you should feel greatly fortunate she does not.”

The girl gave in then, and nodded, “Then we shall sing the lullaby song.”

“You wish for a lullaby?” Legolas commented in confusion, “Are you sleepy, child?”

Eryndes laughed, “It is the song the children have been learning this past week. Briel chooses it because it is the only song she can remember.”

Briel blushed, “I am akin to Sindar; I don’t sing.”

“Yes, you do and you will.” Eryndes gently reached over and adjusted the girl’s posture so she was sitting straighter, “Focus your breathing and follow me.

hön'marën kena-uva kala

(my heart shall see light)

indönya ullumeá

(our hearts shall be forever)

nör'ande sëra mi lorien

(go forth, rest in dreamland)

îm'eri ratö naya

(I'll soon be there)

larya nîn mëlissè

(Wait for me my love)

le sinte îma sinomë

(You know I'm here)

ána sama lemî oloorë

(To join you in dreams)

le ar'uunèr ana kaurë

(You have nothing to fear)

uur'anor wannëa

(Fiery sun, begone)

isilme va'arya

(Moonlight, protect us,)

telume siila tere

(Heaven's star, shine through,)

na'are utumno wanya

(Flame of hell, vanish)

erüma, helkàda

(Lonely voice, cold and bare)

raanè ressè

(Wandering alone,)

lörna à'kuilä

(Asleep, yet awake)

Vàrna mi'olör

(Safe in dreams)

türma ei ràumo

(Shelter from the storm)

Sinomë.”

(Here)

 

They both finished. Briel had struggled somewhat through the song, and forgot quite a few of the words, but it still was a beautifully sung.

“A Quenyan lullaby?” he could not help the frown forming on his brow. “I did not realise you spoke Quenya?”

“No, I-,” Eryndes faltered, “Just a handful of songs. My mother taught them to me. Mostly Quenya has been long lost amongst the Dúnedain for centuries now. Some of the elder women still remember a song or two, but that is all that remains.”

“Yet your mother spoke Quenya?”

“No more than a few words. She met some Nolder journeying from Imladris during her early travels. They shared some of their songs with her.”

Briel was frowning at him, “Did you not like the song?”

Legolas blinked, “Indeed I did. I liked the song very much.”

“But, you don’t seem very happy.”

“Would you have preferred another?” Eryndes asked quickly.

“Indeed I would enjoy another,” he assured her, “I was simply surprised to hear Quenya spoken here in the north.”

Silence overcame them as peas continued to be plucked out from their refuge, and it was some time before he realised that although his hands continued their shelling labour at a much improved pace, his eyes had been drawn once more to the woman opposite him and had been gazing freely without pause.

It was evident, too, in the way Eryndes toyed with the peas in her hand she’d noticed as well. When she spoke she did not raise her head to look at him, “Is there another song you would prefer to hear, Master Elf?”

Legolas did not alter his gaze, watching her, unable to look away. There was one song in particular he would have her sing. . . “What of the song you were singing the day we met?”

Her eyes shot up to meet his, “I am not sure I remember.”

That was not true and his expression told her he knew very well she remembered.

Eryndes looked away from him, her face flushing once more, “It is not an appropriate song for children.”

Finally, disappointed, he acquiesced, “Is there another song the children have learnt recently?” Even as he spoke he heard the footsteps of a man approaching them from behind him.

“Sindar?”

Legolas turned on the bench to face the man striding over to them, “Yes, ranger?”

“Morgulchon’s patrol just returned. His caravan’s narrowed overcame an attack by marauders and Strider requests you in the war room immediately. I think he means to ride out to them.”

“Very well,” he told the ranger rising from his seat. The ranger nodded and turned to leave.

“Redhor, wait,” Eryndes stopped them, “Were there casualties?”

“Four of the worst wounded were sent back ahead of the caravan with Morgulchon. I don’t know how many stayed behind. They’re being carried into the healing rooms now.”

Eryndes jump up, but then her eyes went to Briel whose face had paled greatly, “Briel, I want you to stay out here with the other women.”

The girl nodded, her face growing even whiter.

“Briel?” he tried to soothe, having no idea how to calm a stricken child. He forced a small smile he hoped was reassuring, “Forgive me, I must go. Can we postpone my portrait?”

She nodded slightly, but he was not satisfied and asked with a brow raised, “You will not forget?”

Colour returned to her cheeks and she returned his smile, “I promise I won’t.”

Moving away from the table, he caught Eryndes watching him for a moment before turning to head towards the main entrance of the house.

Turning away, he continuing on his own way towards the war room.

 

 

 


	13. Of Elf and Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *  Thanks to all who reviewed, particularly to the wonderful people who wrote such beautiful and thoughtful words. You all buck me up! And those who wrote what you felt, which bits meant the most and what you suspect for the future, etc. thank you! This helps me enormously! Any of you willing to be my second beta? ;) :P   
> Thanks also for the favourites, follows and kudos.  
>    
> ** Thanks to my writing buddy – doesn’t feel write to call her a beta anymore. She is my sounding board and editor. She cracks the whip and soothes the insecurities. Thank you for all your support, my dear Frannel. And good luck with your own writing adventure!  
>    
> *** For all the Thranduil fans, please have faith in me. Each time we touch on the happenings of the sixty-year gap, there is growth and strengthening – not only with me writing for him, but also in his relationship with Legolas. So, please be an elf and have patience. There is so much depth and complexity to his character, I can only try but never master.  
>    
> **** There are no warnings for this chapter – unless you count my attempts at writing humour (if you can find them, it’s a bag of M&Ms! Let the treasure hunt begin!)  
>    
> ***** As this chapter deals mostly with Aragorn and Legolas’ elite troop, I’ve added some extra information; age, preferred weapon (doesn’t mean only weapon, just preferred weapon) and what they’re famous for amongst the Dúnedain folk  
> (There is no actual official set date for Legolas’ conception anywhere (only an age-range), so I made up his age from the top of my head. It wasn’t hard; that’s where most things go!)  
>    
> ****** Poem: Wildflowers by Julie Andrews

 

 

## Dramatis Personae

 

 

* Aragorn/Strider - Male 86 years, long sword, smokes far too much Buckland weed

 

* Baradon/Sculls - Male 27 years, bow, sweet hearted boy

 

* Cordoves/Swan - Female 52 years, twin blades, hard enough to turn cream to butter

 

* Dagnir/Trout - Male 95 years, bow, poet and dreamer

 

* Faron/Dusk - Male 81 years, bow, tall, spindly and unpleasant

 

* Hathol/Anchor - Male 48 years, long sword, gambles the shirt off his back

 

* Laeron/Wren - Male 17 years, bow, younger image of Úrion

 

* Lobordir/Joust - Male 59 years, long sword, skirt chaser

 

* Oldhin/Flank - Male 66 years, axe, crafter of wooden toys for children

 

* Orthellon/Sweeper - Male 37 years, long sword, lonely heart

 

* Sindar (Legolas) - Male 2976 years, bow, Hero of the women-folk

 

* Sírdhem/Husk - Male, 62 years, long sword, family man (but no more; that poor man)

 

* Trîw/Jester - Male 35 years, twin short swords, madcap and prankster

 

* Úan/Ghost - Male 108 years, axe, chess master

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Within twenty minutes, Aragorn and Legolas had gathered twelve of their chosen elite rangers and galloped south along the Great North Road away from Carthal; only Úrion remaining behind to remain in command.

Morgulchon’s report had been given quickly a blitz attack by marauders on horseback, well executed, quick, sweeping through the caravan’s guard. Although the rangers stood their ground and repelled the thieves, four had been wounded. They’d been sent back quickly with Morgulchon to make his report and call for reinforcements. Morgulchon pleaded to return with Strider to the caravan, but being one of the more seriously wounded was ordered to stay behind.

Thus three hours along the well used road and finally they came upon the caravan’s location in the southern mountains.

“(Fools!)” Legolas growled when they pulled up upon the hill top overlooking the sad state of the wagons and the raggedy looking Dúnedain protecting it. “Do they not see their error?”

Aragorn agreed grimly, “Perfect spot for an ambush. Come, we must get them out of the ravine.” He waved them forth. Reaching the bottom, many of the rangers guarding the caravan watched them warily, holding their weapons aloft and ready to strike.

Legolas noticed and so did Aragorn, who signalled a stop. “It is I, Strider. Lower your weapons!”

Some of the rangers looked at each other. One came out from behind the rudimentary barricade, approaching warily, “Strider? It is truly you?”

Legolas looked to Aragorn in question. Aragorn though kept his eyes on the rangers with their bows aimed at them.

“Pegon? Order your men to lower their weapons immediately!”

The ranger waved and the soldiers stood down.

Aragorn and Legolas led their troop the last two hundred metres to pull up just before Pegon.

“Pegon?” Aragorn demanded, “Explain!”

The ranger came forth and bowed, “My lord, for the sake of our lives and the contents of the wagons, we could no longer trust our eyes.”

Aragorn frowned but Legolas pulled Aglarebon around and away from them, his senses scanning around them.

“You cannot trust your eyes?” Legolas heard Aragorn continue to interrogate.

“Aye. There have been things, in the mist and shadow of the mountains. We dared not go after the lost wagon.”

“Sindar?” Aragorn shot around to watch him.

Legolas continued his sweep but then shook his head, “There is no illusion here. If there were, it has long since passed.”

“This illusion took a wagon?” Aragorn dismounted.

“A mist rolled in, shifting quickly, blocking out the sun and all turned cold.” Pegon visibly shook, “and then was gone. With it went the last wagon and team.”

“Joust?” Aragorn called to Lobordir, “get them moving.”

Joust dismounted and set about getting the rangers and the Dúnedain back into guard formation.

Legolas stood listening, arms crossed as the ranger known as Pegon told them of the haunting mists. The marauders were no concern to them since they feared apparitions more than men with axes. And so Legolas listened, his ears sceptical. He knew there was at least one spell-castor in these lands, but spirit apparitions controlling water and air?

He remained very sceptical.

Aragorn though listened patiently until Pegon finished, then calmly called to Trîw at the lead wagon, “Why are the wagons not moving?”

“You stubborn old scrawny mule!”

Aragorn shot Legolas a reproaching look when he sniggered, but spoke to the ranger at the lead wagon’s team, “That’s Aragorn or Strider to you, Trîw.”

“Why is it always me sent south with the wagons?!” Joust cried out, striding up from along the convey. “Go on, Trîw! Get them moving!”

Legolas walked over to Trîw struggling to get the horses to move. Gently stroking his hand over the back of the lead horse, he soothed, “(Why do you stand?)” Reaching the horse’s head, he leaned in close, “(is the ill mannered man calling you bad names?)”

“They refuse to move,” Trîw complained. “They won’t answer my orders.”

“So I see,” Legolas growled, “They are frightened.” Not taking his eyes from the two lead horses, he soothed, “(Why are you frightened? Come, we are homebound. Come).”

The two horses took up the slack, then so did the wheelers and with a small lurch the wagon moved, “(Go on. Soon you’ll be home).”

Trîw let out a long pent up breath, “Finally.”

Legolas watched the horses for a moment longer then narrowed his eyes at the man. “Have you forgotten how to speak to horses?” he accused hotly, staring down hard upon the youth, “Have you no sense at all?”

Trîw, a young man usually full of mirth and good cheer, shrank away with a murmured ‘Sorry Sindar’.

Legolas shook his head in exasperation.

Lobordir came over and spoke quietly, “My friend, Trîw doesn’t speak Sindarin.”

Legolas tensed, “I thought-?“

“One word here and there, but to calm frightened horses?” Lobordir shook his head.

“Why does he not when all other Dúnedain-“

“Trîw comes from a settlement far into the west. I and a few of the others have been teaching him to read and write but . . . he’s not simple; he can read a map, recognise names he’s familiar,” Lobordir continued, “He will eventually learn Sindarin but these things take time.”

Legolas closed his eyes with a grimace, “I had no idea.” Trîw was an exceptional warrior and what's more - a sound tactician. Yet somehow it’d escaped Legolas’ notice the man couldn’t even read?

Further to his slight, he’d just berated him in front of his peers for not speaking Sindarin? “I must go apologise-”

Lobordir stopped him, “Why not wait awhile? He’s the proud sort.”

Legolas’ honour wouldn’t be stalled and went to brush pass, “What Dúnedan is not?”

Patient beyond Lobordir’s usual impatience, he took Legolas’ arm to stop him and spoke with great emphasis, “He wouldn’t want his _disability_ widely known or to change how he is regarded. Especially by those who lead him, for whom others will look to and follow.”

Legolas eyed Trîw from the other end of the wagon caravan and reluctantly gave a nod of capitulation. “Very well.” He eyes darted from Trîw to the others from their elite troop unit helping the rangers get the other wagons underway, “I have much to learn about them.”

“You know their names. That’s a start,” Joust laughed when Legolas glared at him, “Why don’t you just start talking with them. You did with me, and isn’t your life that much richer for it?”

The oddity of Lobordir was that although he was so incredibly self-assured and cocky, at heart he was truly a good man.

Sometimes even wise.

“Rangers!” Aragorn shouted out to be heard by all, “Assume guard positions. Get this caravan home!” Aragorn pointed at Pegon, “Get them to a defensible position before nightfall and to Carthal before midday after tomorrow.”

Pegon bowed low and then scooted away.

Legolas looked at the rangers and their horses quickly falling into proper guard formation around the wagons, “Are we not accompanying them?”

Aragorn came passed and retook his saddle, “Nay, we must discover the missing wagon and what of its cargo can be salvaged.”

Lobordir shrugged and went for his own horse, “Beats wagon duty.”

“It’s still wagon duty,” Laeron cheerfully pointed out.

“The difference, boy,” Lobordir winked at the young ranger, “is the added spice of adventure.”

Legolas climbed onto Aglarebon’s back, “You speak of adventure - the rangers’ speak of ghoulish mists.”

“You don’t believe in ghosts then?” Faron scoffed loudly, “To unconventional for your superior wisdom?”

“Actually, I know them to be real. I have seen the dead walk,” with a patient glance back at Lobordir and Faron, Legolas surveyed around them again for any sign of trouble, “but tell me this? What want do ghosts have for food wagons?”

“Let’s find out,” Aragorn addressed them all, “The wagon left tracks; the _mist_ didn’t. Stay sharp!”

There was no sign of threat and at Legolas’ small nod, Aragorn sped them off and out of the ravine, following the stolen wagon tracks heading southwards.

 

* * *

 

The hot wind swept across the southern plains, pelting horse and rider with showers of sand and grit. Legolas pulled his long hair out of his face, again, “Faron, what did we talk about bathing?”

The group chuckled, even Faron, who waved an armpit towards the elf.

“Enough,” Aragorn ordered the rangers, “That’s the rotting of flesh as you very well know, Sindar.”

“They might smell the same,” Legolas returned with a grumble.

“Something must’ve died nearby,” Cordoves growled at them, “Could it be one of the marauders? Felled by one of rangers?”

“Even in this heat,” Úan shook his head, his grey hair spilling out more sand to the wind, “we wouldn’t smell it so soon.”

“Well, maybe Sindar could?” suggested Baradon.

“Nay,” Legolas told them, “the flesh is long dead.”

“The horses smelt it,” Aragorn pointed to the ground before them, “They’ve deviated from their course, which means . . .”

“Their under their own will and not some magic?”

“That’s correct, Laeron,” Aragorn approved, “Not far now.”

“They’ve gone back into the mountains though?” Dagnir asked, “Why?”

“The minds of frightened beasts.”

“Shelter,” Legolas shot back at Faron.

“Come,” Aragorn urged his horse forward and so too they all followed.

Not two minutes later, as the winds from the plains were cut short by the break of mountains, Legolas stood higher in his saddle for a pause, listening.

Then he heard it. “(Haste!)”

Startled, Aragorn quickly signalled for a hard charge around the spindly trees and bushes, back into the hills. Their troop rode hard, their path getting narrower, rocky outcroppings jutted out towards them, rising sharply towards the sky.

Legolas pushed Aglarebon forward, passing Aragorn, plunging forth in great speed and soon he came upon them. The wagon was on its side. Jumping from Aglarebon, Legolas ran around the wagon. Two of the horses were trapped, the wheeler left caught under the wagon and crying out in pain.

“Sindar?”

“(Take ease)” Legolas told the horses, nimbly navigating around the mess of ropes and straps, keeping clear of the kicking legs as the horses tried in panic to get up. “(Calm), he soothed.

“Sindar!” Aragorn and some of the others came around the wagon, “You should have waited for us!”

Legolas snapped his head back at Aragorn, “(Do not assume to command me).”

Aragorn set his jaw, then waved Lobordir and Faron through around him to the horses.

“Will you keep them still?” Lobordir asked Legolas, “Faron and I will unbuckle them, but if they try to jump up to their feet-”

“They will do more damage, this I know,” Legolas snapped. “Rest assured, they will not move. Unbuckle quickly.”

The two men started with the front standing horse, unbuckling the mare with practiced ease, while Aragorn and Legolas stroked and soothed the others. Quickly, they lead two of the horses out and back to the rest of their troop. Returning, both men kneeled on the ground and did what they could to release the first horse.

“Cut it,” Aragorn nodded to the wicked looking hunter’s knife at Faron’s side. “There will be spare straps in the wagon.”

“(Remain still),” Legolas commanded both horses, still stroking the neck of the injured wheeler.

Joust held up a hand to Faron, “Sindar, he’s going to kick getting up.”

Sindar nodded, “Do it.” If he was right, the wheeler was done for already. A hoof to the neck or flank would be nothing now. “(Be calm),” he commanded gently, “(Stay still).”

Faron cut the last tether . . .

The lead horse kicked out, first striking the wheeler in the chest, and then found the ground, getting his front hooves into the rocky ground, shot up. Lobordir lead him around to where the other two horses waited.

Faron set to work of the remaining buckles and cuts. “He’s broken his leg,” the hunting master commented quietly.

“I noticed,” Legolas lamented watching Faron made quick work of the leather. With a huff of forfeit, Legolas held his hand over the last strap.  “Stop.”

“Why?” asked Faron.

“Why cause more torment? Rising to his feet is unnecessary pain. Leave him.”

“What are you saying?”

“Sindar?” Aragorn asked cautiously.

“He will not make it back, and we cannot leave him alive to wait for the wolves. We should end it now.”

Faron stood up, “You can’t be serious? The gelding is young, with Joust’s medicine and tending he may recover.”

Legolas shook his head and reached for one of the knives on his back, “I will not let him suffer your foolishness. He will not make it back.”

“Stop,” Aragon stepped up next to Faron to stare down at him, “This is not just an animal in pain. Horses are-”

“Valuable. Expensive,” Faron finished.

Legolas glared up at them, “Your valued and expensive horse is in agony. I will stop it.”

Aragorn sighed, “Sindar, you cannot. Four are needed for the wagon. The provisions in this wagon will feed-”

“Use another,” Legolas stood, “You will not use this one.”

Aragorn looked down at the gelding then nodded.

However Faron wasn’t convinced, “You would kill a horse that can be saved? Where is superior elven logic?”

“How do you intend on getting him back?”

“Joust could use a splint-”

“Even with a splint the pain-”

“It’s a horse, not a child!”

The horse at their feet started crying in earnest once more.

“Come, let’s discuss this calmly,” Aragorn waved towards the other side of the wagon, “Raising your voices will only distress him.”

Faron went to follow Aragorn-

Only to jump back upon hearing the loose of an arrow.

“Sindar!” Faron cried, eyes widened at the arrow sticking out of the gelding’s chest, piercing straight into its heart. The horse was dead and at peace. “How dare you?!”

“I do dare,” Legolas kept a handily hold on his bow, “You will not torture any animal, or I shall see you suffer the very same.”

Aragorn rubbed his face then continued around the wagon, “Laeron, your horse is about the right size, prepare her. You’ll drive the wagon. The rest of you, get this wagon back upon its wheels. Check for damage. Secure the load.”

Faron however did not move, “It must seem so easy for you, see a horse in pain and kill it. Never mind the cost to us. The price for that horse would’ve fed a family for three months. But what does it matter? We’re only mortals, poor and ragged. Are you happy seeing us straggle? Would you enjoy watching us starve?”

“Faron!” Aragorn called from the other side of the wagon. “Now!”

Faron turned to quickly obey and Legolas watched him go angrily but he remained steadfast in his choice.

Faron could accuse him whatever he wished. What did it matter what Faron thought? The both of them never held much respect for the other.

Looking back down at the horse, his brows drew closer.  

With a long breath, Legolas knelt down to finish removing the strapping from the deceased gelding, and retrieved his arrow.

 

* * *

 

With the help of the horses, all the men and lone elf, the wagon was righted. Laeron’s mare strapped in easily to replace the lost wheeler and they were underway. Concerned about the return of the marauders as now their pace was languidly slower to make an easy target, Aragorn steered them instead into the desert-like plains; a shortcut he’d called it. The sun soon set completely, filling the horizon with bright red and orange and the company silently made their slow way north through the darkness, witnessed by a solo light in the sky. Legolas didn’t look to the moon.

His mind was troubled.

Four hours before dawn, Aragorn finally called a halt; they would rest for three hours. Many of the rangers were keen to keep going, but Aragorn was adamant. The wagon team had suffered a lot yesterday and if they wanted the wagon to make it back to Carthal at all then a more limited pace must be maintained. They found water, filled every horse’s belly first, then took ease on the hard, rocky ground surrounded by scraggy bush.

Legolas took the watch without word.

The hours passed without noise except from critters in the night; those men who didn’t sleep remained silent. And those who slept did so with an open ear to the wind.

And in the silence, Legolas’ thought back to eighteen years earlier . . .

_The long corridors and walkways had not changed in pitch or depth in the thirty some years since his boots last brushed against the smooth rock and polished wooden roots of home. Seemingly of their own accord, his feet took the most direct route straight from his old quarters to where he knew his father to be._

_Only arriving less than half an hour earlier, Legolas was filled with joy, and more than a little surprised to see Tauriel; captain of the guard once more and content with her life in Thranduil’s court. She had been eager to recommence their friendship and recount the passing of the years with him. With a promise of a thorough debrief over a few bottles of wine they parted quickly; her for duty and he to refresh after his long journey._

_Now marching straight on through the guards to his father’s private audience chamber, he did not brace himself. He did not hold his breath. Whatever welcome his father deigned appropriate he would endure._

_As he’d always done._

_All conversation within the room stopped. All eyes turned upon him. Many of the room’s occupants hastily bowed, holding themselves low until he passed. Other’s stood, mouths agog, turning their eyes to their king._

_Coming to stand in front of him, Legolas held himself up tall, fruitless really when compared to the truly insurmountable height of Thranduil. With a well practiced but rarely used bow of his own, Legolas greeted him crisply, “My lord.”_

_“So you have indeed returned; I thought perhaps my guards were misled by fairies,” Thranduil eyed him severely, then raised his voice, “Leave us!”_

_Quickly the room emptied; each one quick to leave, but not without shooting back eager glances. No doubt the gossip in the realm would run wild tonight._

_“I ought to strike,” he stepped in closer, his eyes beading down upon him._

_Legolas held his ground, fully prepared to receive a strike if his father so chose. This he did not fear._

_“Thirty-two years?” his father hissed, the long broad body Legolas never came close to achieving visibly tensing. “Have you nothing to say?”_

_“I have nothing to say.”_

_Thranduil closed his eyes slowly and when he opened then, Legolas prepared himself for his father’s ire._

_It never came. Thranduil opened his eyes, then his arms and Legolas was abruptly pulled in a fierce embrace._

_Eyes wide and paralysed with utter astonishment, Legolas could not remember the last time he’d been held, least of all by his father. His face felt hot and he didn’t know what to do. Attempt to return the embrace? If he tried to free his arms, would his father think he was pushing him away and withdraw?_

_Unsure, he remained perfectly still, trying to ease the tension in chest._

_“You have finally decided I have been long punished enough?”_

_“I did not leave to punish you,” Legolas countered awkwardly, hard pressed against the rigid collar of his father’s cloak, “Nor did I remain away to inflict injury.”_

_Thranduil pulled back and Legolas immediately felt the loss, “Regardless, you have returned.” With the smallest hint of smile, Thranduil looked over his face, “And you are . . . whole.”_

_“I am,” he nodded, still very unsure. “I am well able to take care of myself.”_

_Some of the warmth left Thranduil’s face and he raised his chin, “Indeed?”_

That _was the father he knew. “I have to this day been amongst the men of the north-,”_

_“As news reached me,” Thranduil walked to the table, “News coming from sources of my own, not from my son.”_

_It was not a great surprise his father chose to keep an eye on him through his secret network of spies. Though he did wonder if the rangers knew their ally kept a close eye on them._

_Legolas watched him pour two glasses of wine, “I have seen Tauriel.”_

_“Of course you have.”_

_“I was surprised to see her, glad but surprised.”_

_“You thought I would execute her for her mutinous behaviour?”_

_Deep in his tone was the warning and so Legolas chose not to answer, “You gave her a full pardon.”_

_“I did not do that for you if that is your concern,” he came back with the two glasses and promptly handed him one, “Come, I wish to hear in great detail what has kept you from my side all these years.”_

_Legolas took the wine, but still felt protective of his old friend. It had never been in his father’s nature to be overly forgiving. “If not for me then why?”_

_Thranduil scoffed and walked back over to his chair, waving for Legolas to do the same, “A devious plot perhaps? Vengeance planned over centuries for my tarnished pride?”_

_He didn’t move towards the seat, “It is a simple question, Adar.”_

_“I considered the circumstance surrounding her actions,” Thranduil’s tone dropped and he waved to the seat with greater insistence._

_“What do you mean the circumstance?”_

_“That dwarf,” he breathed then his face softened once more, “There is much to be forgiven where love is concerned.”_

_Legolas’ face pinched. “Do not call it love; she only knew the Naugol (Dwarf) a few short days-” he broke off when his father laughed._

_“You still know little of love?” Thranduil’s laugh faded to a grimace, “there too the blame lies with me, at least in your eyes.”_

_He advanced towards his father, “I know plenty-”_

_“You are noble Sindar and we Sindar are not so indecisive or fickle as mortals,” Thranduil interrupted  with a deep, long breath and Legolas knew a lecture at his expense was imminent, “A Sindar knows the nature of his own heart. He does not barter or ignore it. He does not try to coax feeling where none exists. Even the Sylvan pledge their hearts without need for rationalising or reasoning. And Tauriel? A dwarf? Is there no greater exhibition of the power of elven love?” Thranduil looked down upon him with a smirk, “Yet you? Did I take six hundred years to decide I might eventually come to love your mother?”_

_Legolas’ insides clenched, and so did his fists, a wealth of hurt and regret bubbling to the surface, “Adar-”_

_“I am grateful to the dwarf. His influence saved me from having to save you. It is only fitting I in turn save his lover.”_

_“I did not need you to save me from Tauriel!”_

_Thranduil took a slow sip of wine, his eyes unwavering upon him, “Your belief in a union with Tauriel was merely concessional, desperation even.”_

_Though his father’s suggestion made him angry  his regret left him paralytic and cold, “H-how can you say that?”_

_“My understanding is far greater.”_

_Legolas swallowed, hard. With cold eyes he watched his father finally give up waiting and took his seat._

_“No contradiction? No defence?” Thranduil took a long draft of wine. Only when the glass rested on the arm of the chair did he continue, ”It is within our souls to value love as highly as we value honour, duty, creation, and yet despite your years you have yet to engage a single prospect for proper courtship.” Thranduil shook his head, “A marriage of friendship with Tauriel? You thought over the course of time you would become to love the one you married?_

_“Nay, Adar,” Legolas disputed, once again feeling the elfling trying to account for some misdeed. One of plenty misdeeds. “Given the passage of time for formal courtship, I believed-“_

_“No, my son,” his father firmly pressed, a hint of despair carrying into his tone, “You truly know so little? The path to love is as unmistakable as the first rays of new sunlight upon the dawn._

_Thranduil looked down at his wine, an odd vulnerability coming to his face, “Love is mystifying . . . Shattering. As it was with your mother.”_

_The mention of his mother, twice in the same night, three times in a century, had not happened for a very long time and Legolas found himself taking the seat his father offered in wonder, and desperate to hear more, “Bright light flew into every nerve, shattering, devastating.” Thranduil turned away, and continued, his voice barely above a whisper, “There was no reprieve, no comfort. I could not sit or stand, remain close or journey afar, for all I did the torment endured. But for the pain cometh, never would I have chosen to do without it. Not even now.” Thranduil turned back and saw Legolas watching him, his eyes narrowing, “for those we love all manner of torment must be taking in stride.”_

_The wonder vanished. “You suggest I torture you?”_

_“Suggest?” the narrowing of his eyes told Legolas to be prepared, “Nay, Legolas, I accuse and righteously how! Tell me how you would describe thirty-two years without word if not torment and punishment?”_

_Legolas faced his ire as he’d always done, face forward, eyes staring directly into his, “I have kept watch over Arathorn’s son, as per your suggest-”_

_“Yet not once did you think of your father and return.  Do you not think your point proved long before now-”_

_“I did not come back to argue over this!” Legolas snapped and saw at once his father’s face turn from anger to hurt. Frowning, he implored him, “Have you so little understanding or forgiveness for your own son when you have so much for others not of your kin?” Even though Tauriel’s amnesty was wonderful news, there was no mistaking the jealousy ebbing into his heart._

_“Understanding? Find anyone on this Earth who understands you more than I and you may gift them the entire contents of the treasury.”_

_“If you are so sure-“_

_“Please,” Thranduil waved forth, “do tell.”_

_Legolas stammered. However much he wanted to say Aragorn or even Tauriel yet . . ._

_“I have forgiven you,” Thranduil finally offered gently. “And I do understand your reasons. You should know there were times I might have sent for you to be brought back-”_

_“Truly?” Legolas demanded dangerously._

_“Do not,” Thranduil gave his own warning, sitting taller, “Had I chosen to do so it would have been within my right. You maybe my son but you are still the supreme commander of my army and prince to your people. The privilege of being of my house does not liberate from due allegiance, loyalty and duty to your realm.”_

_Legolas knew this of course; No matter the distance or passing of time, his father could exercise his right and recall him at will. Yet to hear it spoken to such unbreakable terms was a bitter truth. “Yes, Adar,” he submitted flatly._

_“I did not because I wished not to force your return, only waiting upon each weary hour in hope of your approach.”_

_Legolas set his jaw against the guilt his father was all too adept at provoking in him. “I was never certain the manner of welcome.”_

_“Legolas,” Thranduil reproached quietly, a frown touching his ancient face, “You must never doubt-,” he paused, “No matter the manner of your return or the circumstance of your departure, my welcome will always be most . . . sincere.”_

_He shifted on his seat but held his tongue. His father was never one to make overtures of affection._

_Especially to him._

_Thranduil breathed in deeply and lifted his chin, “You are my son, you should know better...”_

* * *

 

And with those words the lid was once more shut and his father once more the elven-king. But their discussions did slowly become easier over the course of a few days and by the time Legolas next left Lasgalen, an agreement was ratified between them; no more than a handful of years would pass between return visits.

Legolas broke his gaze away from the moon. For all his father's failings, he still forgave Tauriel for her mutiny and rebellion against him, something Legolas previously condemned him incapable.

And what of him? For all his vanity, Legolas was aware of his many failings too. Thranduil was not perfect. Aragorn was not perfect, yet he still loved them. What torture did Legolas inflict on Aragorn by refusing to accept him wholly, imperfect? What other tortures did Aragorn endure to be friends and brothers with him?

Maybe Aragorn was right. Lobordir was no purer than a rooster amongst the chooks, yet Legolas still found a friend in him. He thought of Arwen, and although they’d never met, he could only wonder at the strength of her love for Aragorn if she could look beyond his actions which were so damning to elves.

Over the opposite side of the camp, Aragorn’s breathing changed; he was rousing from light slumber. Indeed Aragorn was the first to rise from the uncomfortable ground, only glancing briefly in Legolas’ direction and went to relieve himself. Upon his return, Aragorn strode directly to the wagon and busied himself checking wheels, the leather covering, leather strapping and buckles.

Legolas looked back up into the heavens, then back to earth, his eyes making a full circle; Aragorn’s brooding was as bad as any elf.

With a long drawn breath, Legolas stealthily made his way over. As the elder, and Aragorn’s unwillingness aside, it was up to him to dissolve the situation. For all the darkness looming, this was time when they should be rallying, strengthening each other, not squandering time in dissent.

Aragorn was tugging at the rope ties, tightening, and Legolas stopped him with a quiet clear of his throat. “I cannot forget the past because it is you,” he explained, “for you are different to me than the rest of men.”

“I was merely a boy,” Aragorn defended firmly, moving away from him along the wagon, “You and I hadn’t even met.”

Legolas ignored his protest and pointed to the men, “ _They_ I can absolve because it is their nature.”

“You also believe it in mine.”

“You think me unfair but I have not seen even the most honourable of men fall to their . . . appetites?”

“You think so little of me?” Aragorn whirled around on him, “That I would now do the same, knowing what I’d lose?”

“It is not how little I think of you,” he revealed fondly, “but how highly. Of course I hold you to high expectation; we are brothers. What elder brother would I be if I could allow the liberal behaviours of men in my own kin?”

“You knew this about me before _taking_ me as kin,” Aragorn slowly moved away, easing himself around the wagon and away further from the camp, “Yet unlike a brother, I will never have your faith . . . or forgiveness.”

“It is not my forgiveness you do not have,” Legolas admitted to him slowly, and for the very first time, “I forgave you long ago.”

Aragorn stopped, his eyes widening in surprise.

But Legolas continued, adamant all would be said for this was going to be the last argument upon the subject, “What I cannot get by is the fear you will fall again-”

“So I do lack your faith,” Aragorn shot quickly. “Your fear is unfounded. I will not fall. I am for Arwen and none other.”

He stared at his friend, nay his brother, with all the tender fondness of a blood brother, “You may know well of earning someone’s love,” he paused, but then forced himself to speak, “but I know the ruin when it is lost.”

A silence grew between them.

“I understand,” Aragorn finally answered softly, “I truly do. But what you must understand I was an aimless youth at that time,” Aragorn’s eyes glazed, falling far away into the distance, “Arwen and I, we weren’t,” his words faded and he swallowed, “I’d never betray her, a dagger to my own heart. You must have faith and believe in me. If you of all people do not-”

“Very well,” Legolas declared tightly, keen to have done with this conversation; such subjects did not come easily for him, in so much he was very much like his father. “You have my faith ever unyielding, in this you must be never in doubt. Even so, I will always fear for you. That is perhaps my failing but it is the price of my affection. Now please, let us be finished with this matter.” Legolas walked on, busying himself with checking the wagon as Aragorn had started.

A minute passed however and still Aragorn’s eyes gazed unmoving upon him.

Legolas kept his focus on tightening the tie to the second rope. “(Speak if you must),” he gave in, tugging at the coarse leather covering from the wagon’s load.

“There is more to love than fearing its loss.”

Not looking back at Aragorn, Legolas moved away to the next rope before murmuring, “I am aware.”

His tone was clear; the subject was finished. He heard Aragorn deeply sigh before moving around the other side of the wagon and began rousing the others.

Legolas glanced over hearing Aragorn laughingly break-up an argument between Cordoves and Dagnir and how close he’d chosen to sleep next to her. Of course Aragorn was right, there was more to love then fear. However when one suffered so acutely at its loss as Legolas had, he could not simply slide in a water-gate to stop the flow of his fears.

Aragorn suffered from his fears and doubts, as did Thranduil, as did Legolas. It was a part of who they were and a testament to the depth of their caring, however negatively, but it was the cost of being family.

_‘...for those we love all manner of torment must be taking in stride.’_

At least now, with the resolution of their tiff, there was yet only one more difficult conversation remaining between them.

However, that particular discussion was not yet due. Not by a long stretch.

Spotting Trîw finish rolling up his blanket and heading for his horse, the time had come to fix up yesterday’s misstep and Legolas quietly followed the young man.

Not even dawn yet and already this day was proving most humbling.

 

* * *

 

 

Tens of thousands of years of river-flow and thousands of years of harsh winters carved out the arid-like terrain, stripping away most of the top soil until exposing rock and bedrock. The water carved its own path, twisting and turning, digging in deep in one particular place to create a stunted but no less stunning gorge with a tiny lake at its centre. The haven was secret, only known to birds and beasts until the Dúnedain stumbled upon it in the more recent centuries. Far too isolated to be frequented the lake was a sanctuary.

The flat plains surrounding the gorge were harsh yet full of life. The wildflowers in this particular spot were highly prolific, a vibrant blanket of tiny mauve flowers in soft wide leaf grasses.

Legolas looked questioning at Aragorn.

Aragorn gestured to the lake, “(Lonely Lake). This far south, the plains are flat enough that from the top up there we can see a hundred miles in every direction. None can find this place but those who know where to look. It’s been keep secret for centuries.”

“Shall we?” Lobordir pulled his horse up beside them.

Aragorn waved them forth, “By all means. Laeron? You and Dagnir see to the wagon team. Let them rest too; they’ve earned it.”

Legolas stared at him. “Do we not have more pressing matters? The caravan would surely be almost to Carthal by now.”

“Then our duty is done,” the usually quiet and reserved Orthellon dismounted and started unbuckling his horse’s bridle.

“Orthellon’s right. Come, melloneg, you cannot pass up an oasis this welcoming.”

“Elves know little of fun and joy,” Trîw rode passed, urging his horse straight into the water.

“Truly?” Legolas questioned the man with a half-hearted glare, for he was glade since their ‘talk’ earlier, the young ranger immediately returned to his jovial ways, “This is news indeed. What have you for your authority?”

Trîw didn’t answer, abandoning his horse with a less than graceful dive off its back to splash with a loud whack into the lake.

“Fool didn’t even remove his saddle,” Sírdhem’s horse was tied up and he was unbuckling the saddle. “He’ll be whining about his wet seat all the way home.”

“Ugh,” Cordoves muttered in disgust from behind the group, “If you men intend on swimming naked, I’ll be over there.” She dismounted and headed towards the other end of the pool screened by dozens of trees bright with green summer foliage.

“You don’t have to, Swan, you _can_ keep _your_ clothes on.”

“As always you are missing the point, Baradon. Why should I ever want to see the likes of you in the buff?”

Aragorn was already pulling at his vest ties and chuckled, “I’d tell them to keep their trappings on for you, Cordoves, but I’m not going too. This day the ground is shrieking with fire; man, woman and horse deserve a swim unhampered by clothing or straps and leather.”

She snorted and spoke to her horse, “Come Suldal. A quiet, _private_ swim awaits us,” then led them both around the trees out of sight.

Legolas was glad for Cordoves’ modesty. Despite his long years, Legolas had never actually seen a naked elleth or woman. Of course he’d seen sketches in books, his father’s library alone possessed many detailing races, anatomy, and even marital-union instruction. Additionally he’d also seen artwork from some of the cruder cultures in Middle Earth. Never before, however, in the . . . flesh, the closest being women wearing naught but night-shifts.

Although Cordoves was a fine ranger and pleasant woman, he bore no wish to see her as only her husband should. His was generally not a popular opinion amongst men though who seemed only too eager to brag and boast about the number of the female folk they’d seen without clothes.

It was one of those conversations Legolas was ever bound to endure; patiently, silently, and praying for a quick subject change.

“You could do like Cordoves and find a private spot if you’re worried ‘bout being naked-”

“I have no such concerns,” Legolas cut off Laeron’s ridiculous suggestion sharply and got down from Aglarebon. Him, shy? Not in front of his fellows in any case. With a woman around? That was different and could be hardly considered decent or proper, especially given his royal rank.

Again, he was glad for Cordoves’ absence.

He walked Aglarebon over to the large rocks, square like children’s play blocks, pulled off his bridle and saddle, then shooing him away to go run free with the others. He swept off the dirt from another rock before laying his jerkin on top.

“Worried about getting your pretty clothes dirty, eh Sindar?”

He ground his teeth pulling off his tunic, “Or perhaps I have a healthy distaste for deer refuse.”

Faron stopped laughing, “Ah! You might’ve said something.”

“I just did.” Setting his boots beside the rock along with his trousers, Legolas walked passed Faron with deliberate smugness, watching a half-naked Faron brush fresh deer droppings from his shirt. “Does a Hunting Master not need good eyesight?”

Faron dropped his shirt, “Then you _will_ compete with us.”

“Compete?”

“In a game of polo in the lake.” Faron scoffed, “Or does your culture forbid you or are you too ashamed you’re far too delicate against _real_ men?”

“Elves aren’t delicate!” cried Laeron coming back from the wagon.

“Keep to your own business, boy,” Faron stepped in closer to Legolas, their heads almost level as Faron was the closest to Legolas in terms of height amongst the Dúnedain.

Legolas calmly stood his ground, “I am no man.”

“Clearly. A man isn’t meant to be pretty as a woman.”

“Do you expect this posturing will achieve my submission?” he questioned whilst maintaining air of nonchalance.

“I don’t insult you as a warrior,” Faron clarified, “but this is a game and I think you just won’t admit you cannot play.”

His brow rose but so too did blood. Legolas was always a slave to his competitiveness.

Baradon passed them, grinning broadly, “Come Sindar. Let’s drown them!”

Sírdhem, too, walked passed, his always narrowed eyes now directed at him, “Wasting your breath, Faron. Elves don’t know how to have fun.”

“Too bad,” Faron clucked his tongue then he joined Sírdhem at the path down to the water, quickly shrugging off the rest of this clothes and tossing them in the direction of the rest.

“You’re poking the fire with a goblin’s foot,” Aragorn warned with a sly glint to his eyes. “Elves _do_ play games; they just take them more seriously. A _lot_ more seriously.” Aragorn nodded to them, “Faron, Laeron, Trîw, Hathol, Orthellon and I against Baradon, Sírdhem, Cordoves, Dagnir, Úan and Oldhin.”

“How many times must I repeat; I’m not getting in the water with a bunch of naked men,” Cordoves called from the other side of the bushes.

Baradon laughed, “You could play in your slip.”

“Only if you play in yours,” she returned to the great amusement of the others.

Aragorn shrugged, “Joust?”

“You know I can’t swim.”

Legolas frowned at him, “Truly?”

Lobordir eyed the water warily, “Well, not well. Can’t let down the team by drowning now can I?”

Troubled, Legolas was quite firm, “This must not endure any further.” Suffering a disability with water was dangerous, not only during missions but to his friend’s life in general. “You will learn.”

Lobordir huffed, “I knew you were going to say that.”

“Well not now,” Aragorn told him soothingly, “You can fix Joust later. Now, we play.”

“Six to five,” Baradon fussed, “Not exactly fair, Strider.”

Aragorn directed the question at Legolas.

Legolas met his eyes but it was futile; there wasn’t much he’d deny his friend. He did sigh heavily though, and with an air of exasperation. “Very well.” He threw a glare in Faron’s direction, “You must promise me I get to drown Faron.”

The others all laughed and cheered.

Faron scoffed but waved to the lake, “Well come on then. Let’s see just how well elves can swim!”

The two youngest men took off towards the bluff at speed, racing each other to the cliff top, jumping together and dived straight down into the water. They rose as one and splashed about. Faron, having taking the path down to the lake, threw them the ‘ball’; nothing more than an emptied waterskin blown up with air.

“I never thought I’d see you playing a game of water polo,” Aragorn chuckled from beside him.

“Then you forget how much I enjoy winning.”

“You drown Faron and you’ll owe me a ranger.”

Legolas mirrored Aragorn’s devilish grin, “Easily arranged.”

The younger two, Laeron and Baradon swept out of the lake to run passed them again, leaving little droplets of water flying through the air in their wake. “Come, Sindar! The water’s cold!” Baradon called from atop of the bluff, “and the depth deep. You can dive in!”

“You first!” grinning, Laeron pushed Baradon off the edge with a warcry then jumped in after him.

“You keep collecting puppies,” Aragorn sneered.

“Still jealous? You were the first ‘pup’ after-all.”

“I am not jealous. Makes for a welcome change; Joust was one of mine.”

“I wasn’t,” Lobordir groused, walking with great trepidation waist deep at the water’s edge. “I was chasing Thalion’s sister, Strider, you happened to be around those years.”

Aragorn shook his head in mirth, “Thalion never would’ve permitted you of all men to court his sister.”

“Sindar?” Baradon called from the middle of the lake. “Will you jump off, do all those fancy tumblings?”

“I am not inclined to, no.”

Sírdhem snorted, “Since when do you refrain from showing off?”

“Since there are no maidens watching!” shouted Trîw, “Everyone knows you showed off for Eryndes the day of the funeral!”

“Cordoves?” Lobordir laughed. “Sister? You’ve got to come back this side and make Sindar show off!”

Legolas glared down at Lobordir and Trîw, “I am hardly amused.”

“Neither am I,” called Cordoves, far closer from behind the trees than expected. “I’m no maiden nor do I have any wish to watch anything _any_ of you do naked. I dearly loved my husband and won’t have his memory spoiled by beholding your inferior male figures.”

“Inferior figures!” Laeron cried amongst the other shouts of outrage, “Surely we are but the finest amongst the Dúnedain! Nay, all of men!”

Cordoves’ answer was a single, condescending laugh.

“Why between Strider, Sindar, Laeron and me, the world has never seen better manly magnificence!” Lobordir quickly smirked up at Legolas, “Sorry, not a man.”

“What about the rest of us?” Trîw demanded.

Lobordir answered being handsome was a requirement to qualify and so another argument broke out, but Legolas’ attention returned to Aragorn when he quietly cleared his throat. “Tell me, was Eryndes the reason you took up the challenge against me that day?”

Aragorn’s question made his stomach fall out from beneath his feet. Legolas kept his face nonchalant as he turned rigidly to look at him, his elven body burned with an intensity no hot day out on the plains could ever inflict. His friend was staring at him openly.

He was waiting for an answer.

“If you need a reason,” Legolas said calmly with a wry smile he did not feel, “then let it be her. I for one never tire of dropping you on your backside.”

The speed of Aragorn’s answering chuckle loosened the tension in his spine and Legolas turned and jumped, somersaulting three times before hitting the water cleanly. The water was crisp and clean, and although not affected by the hot day as the men were, the cool water against his skin was still welcome.

Rising languishingly to the surface, he slowly stroked over to the others. Aragorn also swam over to them having followed him in and gave no indication he’d not been satisfied with Legolas’ answer.

“The rules Sindar-“

“Thank you Baradon, but I am well acquainted with most of the games men play.”

Baradon looked at him curiously.

“I lived amongst men in the Wild for sixty years.”

“There are swimmable lakes in the _Wild_? I thought it was mostly wallows and marshes.”

“In a lake or on the ground, the game does not change. Fight the object to the opposite end through the opposition team to win.”

“Sindar?”

Legolas looked over at Aragorn’s head floating above the water, “Yes?”

“Try not to drown Faron.”

With a laugh from all, Faron’s being the loudest, the game began.

 

* * *

 

 

“By the time we get back, the games will be almost over. Perhaps none remaining by the Ranger’s Challenges and then the feast.”

“So I gathered,” Legolas lay on his back in the hot sun, staring up into the deep blue sky, nearly as deep a blue as her eyes. They were all lying or sitting on the smooth rocks beside the lake. Orthellon, whose skin was very pale sat in the shade of the trees, quietly humming to himself as he often did.

Lobordir, having taken a bag from his saddle, handed out the bushel of apples within then gone past the treeline with his hand covering his eyes to give a few to his sister. He left them the promise a tussle with his sword should any take a peek at her through the trees while he wasn’t there to stand guard.

Cordoves simply made a sound of sweet endearment at her younger brother then told him to hurry up.

Instead of peeking, the men plundered from his apple bag with a gay but muted laughter.

The game of water polo had been a disaster. After an equal amount of success for both teams, the game soon descended into chaos with far too much laughing, splashing and dunking.

In the end, both Legolas and Faron had been told to lighten up; it was only a game. Aragorn reminded them; he’d warned them about elves and games, and then declared the game a draw.

“Did you plan on taking part, Sindar?” Laeron asked, sunning his back lying tummy down on the flat rock. “In the Ranger Challenges I mean.”

“I see no reason why I should.”

“There are prizes.”

Legolas didn’t answer.

“What prize would entice an elf more? A wreath of flowers or a wreath of orc heads?”

Legolas looked over at Sírdhem, “Depends on the orcs.”

“Is there nothing you would have as a prize?” Laeron pressed.

“I want for nothing,” he told him shortly. However as the silence grew heavy, Legolas took a breath and tried to be conversational, “What prize would you have?”

The boy’s face lit up, “Camaenor’s new sword. He’s been telling everyone how even you think it splendid.”

“You are so unimaginative, Laeron,” Baradon teased.

“Oh? Then tell us, what would you have?”

Baradon’s face turned wistful, “A kiss from a fair maiden.”

“Laeron has no need to win prizes for kisses,” Trîw threw an apple at Baradon, “He gets plenty already.”

“Do not,” Laeron said but none could doubt the smugness of his tone.

“You would have a kiss as a prize?” Faron shook his head, “What a waste.”

Baradon smiled coyly tossing the apple in the air and catching it, “I’d like to be married. Perhaps she would marry me if I asked for a kiss when I could have asked for anything.”

Legolas closed his eyes in disgust.

“You have a lass in mind?” Lobordir asked, his footsteps coming back from around the trees, wandering back to his spot.

“Maybe,” Baradon admitted bashfully, “Yes-”

“Where are all my apples?!”

The men sniggered and Lobordir sat his large body down heavily onto the rocks, “Thieves!”

“Disgusting,” Legolas muttered finally.

A heavy silence followed and Legolas opened his eyes to find them all staring at him in question. “To force another to kiss you as a prize? It is vulgar.”

“Can you see now?” Oldhin pointed at him, “Elves have no sense of fun.”

Baradon looked down, “You really think I’m disgusting, Sindar?”

Legolas saw the shame on the young man’s face and felt regret fill his apple happy belly, “We are simply of two different cultures. To an elf, kissing one you do not love or who does not share your love is nigh as bad as wedding without vows.”

Baradon was lost, “W-wedding without vows?”

“Sindar, you’re confusing him,” Lobordir pointed out with a knowing chuckle, “He means _bedding_ , Baradon.”

 “Oh,” A blush quickly grew on Baradon’s young cheeks, “But he said wedding.”

“For elves it’s the same; they cannot do one without the other,” Lobordir reached over to snatch an apple from an unsuspecting Trîw who cried in outrage. Before Trîw had a chance to retaliate, he took enormous bite and spoke around his mouthful. “Elves are impotent until they wed; they can go thousands of years without ever even kissing a woman, let alone bedding one.”

“Thousands of years?” Laeron mewled. “I cannot imagine waiting so long to be with a woman!”

Faron sniggered loudly, “Rumour has it you’re not one to wait,”

Legolas waited a moment before challenging quietly, “Impotent?”

Lobordir unleashed his best smile of innocence, “Isn’t that correct?”

“No, it’s not,” Aragorn, who up to that point been attempting to nap, grunted, “Just because they don’t doesn’t mean they can’t.”

“How do you know it _works_ if you’ve never tried?” Lobordir winked at him.

Legolas gaped. “I assure you-“ he stopped, a little too flustered to finish speaking, and then becoming even more flustered realising his intension to finish.

Regaining himself, he sat back and countered, “How can you ever expect to give yourself to an honourable woman in matrimonial union when you have already shared with so many?”

Lobordir grinned, “Women don’t expect men to be chaste.”

“Yet you expect the opposite of women?”

“Absolutely. Who’d want to marry a woman who’s already deflowered by another man?”

Legolas hissed between his teeth, but Lobordir’s smugness only increased.

“But you’ll bed one?”

“Come, Úan, I’m not so immoral to chase virgins. But when I marry and I am expected to keep to only one woman, she’d better be unspoiled.”

Legolas stared once more at the blue sky and murmured, “Your kind can be so unaccountably barbaric.”

“All hail the superiority of elves.”

Legolas turned his head on the stone expecting to see Faron’s glare as patronising as his words. Instead he found the man waiting; as if the Hunting Master was studying his prey, waiting for the moment to strike.

The meek surrender of a troubled breath drew Legolas’ attention away from Faron and he rose to his seat; Baradon was sitting low, arms braced on his legs, his head hung low.

Legolas eased the tension in his jaw Faron’s unnerving gaze gave him and spoke gently to the young man, “Baradon, if you think this maiden will wish to marry you after forcing a kiss from her, then by all means. I wish you every success. However do you not think it prudent to seek a private audience first and ask permission? Or risk humiliating her in front of all the folk if she is not receptive?”

The young ranger’s head rose and slowly a smile lifted his shame.

“No wonder you’re not married.”

“You’re not married either, Faron,” Úan snickered.

Legolas stood, pulling his tunic over his head and then reached for his other clothes, “One does not need to be married to realise the ramifications of unduly humiliating the one whom you wish to gain favour.”

“Have you ever wished to gain favour from a lady?”

Trîw’s question stopped him but then resumed pulling his leather jerkin over his head, “I have.”

“You have?” he heard Aragorn ask in surprise.

“As I said,” Legolas confirmed sharply, wondering at his own liberal tongue. Perhaps deciding to become more conversational with them was not so wise after-all.

“Yet you’re not wed?” Laeron asked the obvious.

“Perhaps it escaped your notice,” he said acidly, waving the lack of significant ornamentation to his fingers.

Laeron was as unflappable and intrinsically intrusive as his father, “Why not?”

“Haven’t found one yet who could stand being married to you? Fancy that,” Faron sniggered.

“Don’t be cruel,” Legolas was surprised to hear Sírdhem’s voice and coming to his defence no less. “No man, or elf, is immune to love and there be nothing in this world to render one so easily broken, so completely torn when it is lost.”

Legolas finished belting his trousers and turned back to face Sírdhem. But the man wasn’t looking at the group, he was looking far out into the sky. All the others too stared at Sírdhem, sadness and pity in their faces.

For all Legolas’ misgivings about Sírdhem, it was wise to remember why the man was the way he was; and just what the man had lost.

Not speaking, he pulled on his boots and left them to go explore around the lake. Perhaps some of the wildflowers might make a humble gesture of affection?

 

* * *

 

In the end none of the wild-flowers spoke to him. They were too small and wiry. They were lovely in a blanket of purple across the plains surrounding the hidden lake. Yet what did flowers of odd shape and limited coloured petals say when given as a gift?

Surely a flower of long flowing petals bursting with vibrant colour and bright green leaves would be a better choice?

“Wildflowers,” he whispered, “how my envy flows,

So bravely here you stand.

Casting seeds by the wind

To land where they may

There to remain

And hold

Against most hot, most cold.

You persevere, roots shallow

Yet fierce and free.

You epitomize to me

All that I sometimes

Yearn to be.”

 

The wind blew, gently dancing the flowers in a wave of pretty purple. With a defeated sigh, Legolas left the flowers undisturbed and continued on his walk.

When he returned to the others and they asked him where he went, he simply said he was contemplating the shapes and colours of wildflowers.

Strangely, none questioned him further. Or perhaps it was not strange. Men often thought elves odd and considered anything he did as ordinary.

It was then Aragorn announced his intention to spend the night, “Break out our packs and get a fire going. Faron? Sírdhem? Take Cordoves and Úan and see if you can find us something better than rations for supper.”

“But-“

“No buts, Baradon. It’s too late already; we were never going to get back in time for the games.” Aragorn took the young man’s shoulder and spoke softly, “There are other ways to make your intentions known. Right?”

Baradon nodded grimly and Aragorn slapped him fondly on the shoulder, “Come, let’s get some fires going. Down low on the rocks surrounding the lake; I don’t want the light journeying any further to attract unfriendly eyes. Trout? Toss in a lure. Orthellion? Go with Trout and stop humming. You’ll scare the fish.”

When Aragorn had the rangers moving to his orders, Legolas approached him, “Why are we remaining?”

Aragorn used his flint rock against his sword, sending sparks over the dried grass and twigs, “No sign of quarry or the marauders, a tranquil oasis under a peaceful night’s sky. I thought you’d like the change.”

Legolas looked up at the sky, the sun creeping ever slowly towards the horizon and was now grateful he’d left the flowers unpicked.

“There’s some reason you wish to return tonight?”

Legolas looked back down at Aragorn crouching on the smooth rock, watching him. “I simply did not see the need to remain,” he told him, pulling his bow from his back, “but since your mind is set, I will find something better than the rodents Faron’s bow is capable of felling.”

“Melloneg?”

Legolas stopped walking, “What is it?”

“Are you certain?”

Frowning, he faced his friend who still crouched watching him curiously. “Of course. What engagements would I have?”

There was no mistaking the smug hue to his smile, “I have no idea. These last few weeks you’ve become quite popular amongst folk. Who can guess what my people will have you doing next.”

Still frowning, Legolas raised an eyebrow and continued on his way, “There is nothing which cannot wait another day in any case.”

He was almost to the path of broken stones leading up to the ground level when he heard Aragorn call, “Such as?”

Legolas didn’t stop but quietly answered, low enough not heard by anyone but the breeze, “Preparing vegetables. Late night strolls.”

 

 


	14. Go the Spoils (Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Thanks to all you loyal readers for your continued support and patience. As we all know, life can be very chaotic and I am a victim like everyone else.
> 
> Thank you for all the likes, favourites, kudos and especially the lovely reviews! I am not worthy!
> 
> ** Thanks as always to my lovely beta, Frannel. 
> 
> *** Again, all Sindarin at this stage is denoted by brackets. 
> 
> **** Chapter/Story Warning: Some may argue elves are pure and never suffer a single sexual thought or desire. Trying to imagine the likes of Galadriel getting all ‘randy’ I’d tend to agree. However, whether this is true or not, The Elf Husband is my attempt at a romance novel and therefore the characters must act accordingly; be susceptible to romantic themes and thoughts. 
> 
> \- -Can elves get hot and bothered seeing the person they’re attracted too? Yes, in THIS story elves are just as passionate and desirous as humans; all the baser instincts are still there. They simply adhere to a higher ethical standard regarding sex and self-discipline themselves against anything premarital. 
> 
> ***** If any amateur artists out there want to earn a bit of pocket money, I am looking to commission some artworks for this story. Please message me if interested.

  _Dramatis Personæ_

Aglarebon – Woodland Stallion, Sindar's horse

Aragorn/Strider – Male, Chieftain of the Dúnedain

Baradon/Sculls – Male, Ranger

Bregol/Web - Male, Ranger

Camaenor/Vice - Male, Master of Arms

Cordoves/Swan – Female, ranger

Eryndes – Female, Mistress of Carthal & Apothecary

Faron/Dusk – Male, Hunting Master

Foruyndes – Female, Mistress of Stores

Gueniel – Female, Midwife

Laeron/Wren – Male, Ranger

Lobordir/Joust – Male, Master of Stables

Mydedis – Female, Mistress of Housekeeping

Sali – Female, Mistress of Kitchen

Sindar/Master Elf /Legolas – Sinda Male, undisclosed Prince of the Woodland Realm on unofficial secondment

Trîw/Jester – Male, ranger

Úrion/Bear – Male, Second in Command

 

* * *

 

 

“Seven . . . Eight . . . Nine . . . Ten.”

Across the table Gueniel scratched a mark on her slate.

 “Count?”

“Wait . . .” Gueniel tapped each of her markings, “That’s one hundred and fifty. Forty to go.”

“Truly?” Eryndes snipped, pressing the small of her back with a suppressed groan. “I can sum numbers.”

“Too bad I have the slate,” Gueniel waved the chalk at her, “Come, no time for slacking! We have but a few hours before the games start.”

“Plenty of time.”

“Not if you don’t hurry up,” Gueniel pressed, “Perk up, this will be our year. We will win!”

Eryndes pushed away the empty basket of eggs and draw in the next, “Only if we are challenging children.”

“I’m telling you, today is the day!”

“Did you not say the same last year?” Eryndes sighed, staring at the remaining bucket. “There must be an easier way.”

Gueniel shrugged, “One hundred and ninety eggs per batch is one hundred and ninety eggs.”

“I meant an easier way to prepare cakes enough for five hundred mouths.”

“Stop your griping and get on with it.”

Levelling her eyes, Eryndes pinched at the flour on the bench and flicked it at her.

Gueniel clucked her tongue, “Childish,” then flicked her own pinch of flour.

“Now who’s being childish,” Eryndes tossed more flour.

The air between them snowed white powder flicking across the bench until with a loud laugh, Gueniel grabbed a whole handful and threw. 

Flour went everywhere; bench tops, tables, chairs and floor. 

Gasping and laughing, Eryndes grabbed an egg from the basket and lofted it high . . .

Squealing, Gueniel ducked for cover and almost fell to the floor.

Eryndes didn’t have a chance to gloat.

Cheeks burning she quickly replaced the egg and cleared her throat gently to get Gueniel’s attention. 

“Please, don’t let us stop you,” Aragorn humoured from just inside the kitchen door where he stood with Sindar.

“I am pleased to see you both returned,” Eryndes strained, pulling the basket of eggs closer to her and recommenced breaking. “You will be glad to know Morgulchon and his rangers will all make a full recovery.”

When Aragorn didn’t reply she glanced over and found they were both still watching with great amusement. “The masters decided to delay the day of games in hope of your return,” she dropped her eyes back to her work, wishing her cheeks and heart would calm.

“So I see.”

 “And so we have much to do,” Gueniel pointed out in annoyance and shifted back into her chair.

“I saw,” Aragorn came further and peered at the first batch of cooked cakes cooling on the racks, “How did they go?”

“Well enough,” she answered, “Second batch will be done in a few hours.”

“Why are you making them today? Should they not have been done yesterday?”

“Foruyndes,” Gueniel told him, “mismarked sacks of salt for sugar.”

Aragorn shook his head and started to grumble-

“Please,” Eryndes stopped him, “She is thoroughly ashamed of herself and already scolded repeatedly by Sali.”

Aragorn’s brow creased down at her, “Maybe you should reconsider her position. Her illness must make being a mistress a hardship for the others.”

Eryndes stepped up to him, “Foruyndes has held her post for over a hundred years. I cannot take that away from her.”

Aragorn held her gaze patiently, “Forty cakes wasted-“

“Only flour and salt. The mistake was realised before going any further-”

“Flour and salt enough for forty cakes then.” Aragorn was going to insist, she could see it on his face, and what would poor Foruyndes do then? 

Remaining at the doorway, Sindar finally spoke, “Foruyndes makes these mistakes frequently?”

Eryndes answered defensively, “Just this once.”

Sindar simply directed her answer to Aragorn. Both shared a look of silent communication Eryndes wasn’t apt at reading, making her wretch for Foruyndes. “Aragorn,” she implored, “she will not do it again. I promise. Be it on my own head if she does.”

Her brother’s face broke and chortled, lifting up his hand to pluck at her hair, “You have enough on your head already,” he showed her the flour between his fingers.

Eryndes bit her lip. They would have to arrive right at the inopportune moment. Facing Aragorn after being caught fooling about was bad enough. Having the elf there too was worse.

“Very well,” he soothed, brushing at the flour on her cheek with a thumb, “You’re Mistress, it’s your decision. Just don’t make more work for yourself.”

“There’s always plenty of work, Strider. Perhaps you’d like to volunteer to help?” Gueniel pointed out indignantly.

Aragorn gestured to the flour coating everything, “You two look to have everything . . . in hand.”

Not one to be teased and caring little for civility, Gueniel raised her chin defiantly, “Be gone before we pelt you with eggs; mucking out stables or not, I’ll feel better for it.” She threw her eyes at Sindar, “you and your friend.”

Sindar beamed provokingly at Gueniel, “I do not see why I have earned an egg pelting.”

Eryndes laughed, most unexpectedly. Covering with a small cough, she busied herself with the eggs. “Gueniel’s right,” she defended cracking the second egg, “After nigh four hundred eggs one cannot be accountable for one’s actions.”

“Then we shall leave you to it,” Aragorn’s deep laugh came up beside her, reaching around her-

“What are you doing?” she jumped, grabbing after him with flour coated hands.

Aragorn was faster. He easily dodged around her and snatched like a snake. Grinning he walked back to Sindar with his prize held high. “We’re hungry.”

“Aragorn, you cannot!” she went after him, “These are for tonight.”

“Then you should’ve guarded them better,” he winked, holding the cake out of her reach with one hand, “Sindar smelt them the moment we arrived.”

Eryndes turned to the silent elf, opening her mouth to say something scathing but in the end lost her nerve. Especially when Sindar was openly waiting for her to speak with a humoured smile upon his eyes. Instead she addressed her brother, pointing to the cake in his hands, “You better eat every crumb because there will be no lunch for either of you. I don’t feed thieves.”

Leaning down Aragorn pressed a kiss to her forehead, “You just did.” Grinning at her, he swept past Sindar through the door, “Come, Melloneg.”

When the elf didn’t move to follow, Eryndes finally snapped, “Are you expecting another?” and immediately wished to take it back. 

How was it her wits never failed to flee in his presence?

"And suffer your wrath?" he mused lightly pushing the door back open behind him. "Not this time," he inclined his head with a sly smile and slipped out through the door. 

"I should've thrown an egg in his face anyway. Wipe the smugness right from his face." 

"Please!” Eryndes let out her pent up breath. With an effort, she returned calmly to the bench, “Do you not think me embarrassed enough?"

“Because of the elf?” Gueniel sneered at the door. Taking up some of the flour, she pointedly tossed it in the air, “So he knows you’re just as silly as the rest of us. Why does his opinion matter?”

Eryndes focused on cracking and emptying another egg. How many was that? Four?

“And then you told him to go hungry for stealing a cake?” Gueniel continued with a loud laugh, “Actually you told him and Strider. So that’s two lords you told to go hungry. Where are your manners, mistress? What would your mother say?”

Eryndes lifted her eyes enough to glare at her friend, “Five  . . . Six . . . Seven . . .”

 

* * *

 

 

“I think you miscounted.”

Biting her lip against the desire to call Sali an old donkey, Eryndes took yet another sip of brandy before continuing trickling the spirit over the warm cakes. It was never a good idea to start sipping so early in the day, but when faced with such criticism, brandy did wonders for her patience.

Gueniel didn’t drink brandy; “We were quite sure of the count. Perhaps your ovens were too hot. You did check during baking?”

Sail clucked her tongue with a superior shake of her head. “I do not make mistakes. How dare you suggest otherwise?”

Eryndes quickly moved between them to break up the friction and bow down low over the bench for a closer look, “I see no great difference.”

Sali exaggerated the dip in the middle with her hand, “They’re droopy, flatter than the first batch. The brandy pools in the middle.”

“There is barely any dip at all,” she protested. The afternoon was in full swing. After preparing the cake batter, Sali took over the task of cooking them while Gueniel and Eryndes helped the rest of the Carthal masters’ set up tables and chairs out under the great pear trees. 

Now, the cakes were being unfairly scrutinised by the expert panel of judges. 

Mydedis looked in closer too, “Perhaps we should open one up and taste?”

“See Strider and Sindar,” Gueniel huffed with complete loss of temper, taking a chest full of candles and walked towards the door, “They came in and helped themselves.”

“They took one cake between them,” Eryndes disputed taking yet another sip, “And from the first batch.”

Mydedis pulled out a long cake knife, “Maybe they should be cut before serving, disguising their misshape-“

“They are done,” Eryndes cut in and reluctantly put down the brandy. The buzz was pleasant, but not good when there was still a party to finish preparing for. She joined Gueniel at the door, “Perhaps not to everyone’s high expectations but that is how the cake rises. Let us move on, shall we? We have remaining a lot of work and an hour to do it in.”

“I think you fouled the count,” Gueniel chimed in beside her as they both briskly headed outside.

“Aye,” Eryndes agreed, rubbing the haze from her eyes, “I think I did.”

“But you’re not telling them that?”

Eryndes waved away the suggestion, “I cannot be sure when I only think I did. Besides they were bellyaching over nothing. The cakes are fine.”

“And if they aren’t, give the bad batches to those you don’t like, but especially Strider and Sindar.” Gueniel held the door open for her with a shrug, “Our count was sure until they came in and you lost your wits.”

“I did no such thing!” They made it outside into the heat of the mid afternoon and down along the bustling hustle around the grassy area on the north side where the festivities were being prepared. “They simply interrupted our count-” she stopped, her brandy tingling mind coming to a sharp halt.

“What is the matter?”

“We ordered the bean-chips.”

“Did we?”

“So where are they?”

Gueniel yawned, “How should I know? 

“You are a great help.”

Her friend’s snigger cut short, snapping her fingers with insight, “If no-one’s unpacked them, they must be still on one of the last wagons?”

Eryndes rubbed her brow then pointed in the direction of where all the other masters and mistresses were hastily setting out crockery and candles, and marking out game squares with white painted rope,  “I’ll go. Can you please have them start bringing out the food? Everyone has begun to gather and we are not yet ready.”

“As you bid, mistress,” Gueniel pretended to flick her in the arm.

Eryndes tried to return the favour but Gueniel skipped out of her reach with a chortle.  With a grin she hurried to the south side of the grounds towards where the last of the wagons laid waiting. Already children ran and giggled through the gardens, excited and jubilant, their cheeks red from toffee apples and the blazing sun.

Around the main embarkation loop, the elderly and families arrived upon small carts; women tentatively cradling platters of delicacies to share, children waving to their friends, and men holding barrels of homemade mead and brew. Others jumped down from horseback to embrace and shake hands with great cheer.

Did a few subpar cakes truly matter in the coming afternoon? Where children would run and laugh? The folk of Carthal, her people, the people of her family’s name, revelling together in delight and companionship?

When war tarnished much of their lives, a few dense cakes mattered little.

It was not the brandy in her blood making her steps light and countenance content. 

This day was to be one of fond remembrance.

 

* * *

 

 

Aragorn pulled the straps loose and he waved Legolas forth, “We, the leaders, set up. Then at the end of the night, everyone else continues and gradually packs up while we all retire to the manor.”

Three wagons from the caravan, including the one they’d salvaged, remained full, chugged and covered adjacent to the southern loop of the main embarkation area. To unload and process took time and the Dúnedain were content to leave the work to their leaders. Whilst all around them the joyful preparations for the festivities left Carthal a hive of activity.

Over by the giant pear trees, those talented with pipe, wood and string played merry tunes to coax folk to the newly snipped grass, where the masters and mistresses of Carthal erected long tables, hung lanterns and placed candles. 

The sweetness of the music, folk young and old talking with great animation, and the noise of a ‘hare in the hole’ game in progress was to be heard on the southside of the manor.

“It’s traditional,” Aragorn supplied, “shows we’re all prepared to do our part.”

“I do not mind helping,” Legolas shrugged with afterthought, “a fair trade after thieving.”

Aragorn patted his stomach with glee, “Ah but it was worth it.”

Legolas shook his head slowly with a wry smile, “I wonder when she will allow us to eat again.”

“It’s an empty threat. She’d never see me go hungry.”

Legolas tossed over the rope to Aragorn with a raised brow, “Fine for you but what of me?”

“You either,” Aragorn unhooked then tossed the rope back, “She likes you. She’d never see us go hungry.”

Legolas gathered up the rope with a hidden smile while Aragorn gave the covering a yank and leather slide off entirely. He eyed the contents, “More wine?”

Aragorn hefted a barrel up onto his shoulder, “Come, let’s split a barrel.”

“Did you not say we are to work?” Legolas asked before scoffing, “The last time we split a barrel, I scraped you off the floor of a brothel-“ 

Slight footsteps approached them and he wondered at his slackened guard since his return from Angmar; he’d not even noticed until she was close enough to hear them.

At least this time he wasn’t covered in dirt or stunk.

Aragorn saw her too, “He didn’t mean a brothel.”

“Indeed?” Eryndes asked with recriminating humour, walking passed them to the wagon’s wheel. Using the wheel as a step, she tried in vain to reach for a large red-dyed hessian sack on top. 

Without hesitation, Legolas nimbly swept up onto the wagon, retrieved the sack and swept down.

A warm smile greeted him when he handed it to her, “Thank you.”

His insides glowed. “(You’re welcome).”

Discretely her fingers played with the rough fibres of the hessian, “So, what did you mean if not a brothel?”

“It was an Inn, Eryndes,” Aragorn jumped in from behind them, “Sindar only calls them brothels because of the-” 

“Tavern-harlots?” she supplied for Aragorn sweetly before continuing on her way. 

Legolas’ head tilted at Aragorn’s glare, “What did I do?”

“Now she thinks I’m a lecher!” Thrusting the barrel to him, Aragorn went after her, “We were there for the rooms, sister. Nothing more. Empty rooms.”  

Legolas followed them, barrel under his arm and a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. 

“We were there for the rooms, and a hot meal.”

“And the wine,” Legolas supplied, keeping to a single step behind them.

“Yet you ended on the floor?” she taunted, then held up a hand, “No, please, spare the details if it was with some -”

“From drink. Wine. I was young.” Aragorn shot a glance back at him, “Will you please explain?”

After the past couple days, Legolas was enjoying Aragorn’s discomfort, “It was an Inn, we did have rooms, and yes, Aragorn ended up on the floor, curled up against the empty barrel with a dog.”

“A dog?” Eryndes stopped walking and looked back at him.

Legolas inched closer to her, “A horrid, mangy thing with mites. He was incessantly itching for days.”

Aragorn pouted, “Until I threw my clothes into the fire-“

“-and wore some of mine,” Legolas cut in, “until new ones were purchased-“

“-but not for some weeks-“

“-when we finally reached the next town.”

“-which Sindar paid.”

Legolas gave him a sly glance out the corner of his eye, “How else was I going to get my clothing back?”

Eryndes looked at both of them incredulously, “And the harlots?”

Legolas snorted, “I advised his lack of coin. Their hasty retreat was amusing.”

“And you?”

“Sindar demanded they marry him first,” Aragorn put in slyly, “Some of them were interested-“

“I simply wished to be rid of them,” Legolas explained at once then adding under his breath, “I was foolish believing them to recoil from the proposal.”

Aragorn leaned down to whisper none too discreetly to Eryndes, “They’d never believe he hasn’t any money; a wealthy husband for the capture.”

“You never speak to me of your younger years,” Eryndes accused Aragorn.

“Of course not. Your mother never allowed me to speak of anything uncivil around you. Even now she’ll be waiting in Mandos with a ready hatchet.” They arrived at the tables and Aragorn tapped the spot for the barrel, “This was back when Sindar and I first met. I was still very young, not yet thirty. ”

“You met at an Inn?” she doubted, her eyes flicking to Legolas. 

“Hardly.” Legolas set the barrel where Aragorn indicated, “Though our acquaintance still young, your brother insisted on a warm bed instead of braving an approaching storm and suggested our sharing to ease the cost.”

“Share a room?” she asked.

“The bed.”

Eryndes covered her surprised laugh with a hand.

“Some Inns charge per bed, not per room,” Aragorn grumbled, taking three mugs from the table and turned the tap on the wine barrel, “Sindar refused and paid for two rooms-”

“Which we did not use,” Legolas cut in.

“-and drank a barrel dry.”

“Which I also paid for,” he recounted cheerily, “and our food too. Also herbs for Aragorn’s pained head the next morning.”

Eryndes pursed her lips, “If Aragorn slept on the floor with a dog and the rooms went unused-?”

“There were some men set up with chess tables,” he took the wine Aragorn held out to him but offered it to Eryndes, “I contented myself with winning back my squandered funds while waiting for your brother to regain consciousness.”

She politely waved away the mug with one hand and awkwardly holding the sack with the other, “Thank you, but there is still much to do.”

Legolas frowned, for there was no doubting the brandy to her breath.

Eryndes though addressed her brother,  “That reminds me. Would you have the challengers announced before the feast? Time is already against us; folk gather for the begin of the games and you know how the masters are . . .”

Disappointed, Legolas took back the wine silently waiting as Aragorn and Eryndes discussed the afternoon and evening ahead. The ease of their conversation left him tender and a resentful part of him wished another drunken brawl would call Aragorn away.

Perhaps to the otherside of the Carthal complex for at least an hour?

“Sindar!”

With an exaggerated pause, Legolas peeled his study away from the tiny mole behind  the lobe of her left ear.

Úrion came and shuffled his large frame in next to him, “Word is you don’t intend to join in any of the games? Too bad, I was counting on beating you in the root-toss.”

Legolas handed him Eryndes’ wine, “I do not see a need to compete.”

Úrion tapped the mug against the spare Legolas took from the table, “Games are fun.”

Taking a slow sip he allowed his tongue to savour the taste. Far from the quality of the wines of home, it was still a star-high superior to drinking ale, “And how should I handicap myself to allow others to win honourably?”

With a wrinkle to his nose, Úrion swallowed, “Ugh. Can’t say I prefer wine. There’s no harm in letting folk win.”

“Not competing to one’s full ability is dishonest,” he bit out, watching Aragorn and Eryndes continue their conversation out of the corner of his eye and depart together.

Without word.

Annoyed, Legolas took a long gulp of wine.

“These games are for fun,” Úrion told him absentmindedly. “Besides, who said you’d win? You cannot be superior at everything.”

Legolas took another gulp of wine. Further away now he heard her laugh when Aragorn suggested her, the Champion of Carthal, should stand up for the ranger challenges since her defeat over Sindar. Her reply tartly stipulated only if she rode on Aragorn’s shoulders.

“Sindar?”

Stopping himself from drowning the last gulp, Legolas lowered his mug and raised an eyebrow at Úrion. “(What is it)?”

“My son tells me there’s a skip between you and Faron.”

With a scoff, Legolas threw the wine down his throat. “Faron enjoys being instigator of conflict.”

Úrion nodded, “That’s true. Faron’s always been . . . different. However, if there is a problem-“

“You believe me incapable of dealing with him?” he snapped.

His friend was completely unperturbed as usual and calmly took Legolas’ mug for refill. “I believe nothing of the sort. My reason is not interference, but to offer council-“

“How is council not interfering?”

Úrion didn’t answer immediately. Once filled, he handed the mug back to him, “Faron’s not a usual man, I grant you, but you shouldn’t disregard him because of it.”

Legolas frowned, “I am not certain of your meaning.”

“Look,” Úrion appealed, “he’s as stalwart and seasoned as any of our best rangers. Some even say better at combat than Strider and seen more battles than I.”

That didn’t impress him. “He would not have been singled out for the special training was he not-“

“Sindar, please,” his friend pressed, “Don’t hold his difference against him. If what you saw in Angmar does lead to a bloody battle, we’ll need warriors like Faron. You’d be lucky to have him at your back.”

Still not quite understanding, Legolas stared down at the burly man, “I do not disregard any because of personal differences. I insist you to not make this assumption again.”

To his surprise, Úrion grinned and held up his mug, “That is good. Now come, enough! Let’s drink. Galu! (Cheers!)” 

“Galu,” he returned bringing his mug to his lips and took it away with a growl. “I have been informed much too often of late regarding my conduct. Am I truly viewed so ill-favoured?” 

Úrion laughed but slapped the back of his shoulder, “Oh, my friend. You’re good fellow . . . once folk get to know you.”

Legolas looked for patience in the sky, “I understood I am thought of highly by the lady-folk of the manor.”

“Nothing could be truer. So much you’re named champion to them. One could be fooled into thinking you have quite the talent with women.”

Legolas dropped his eyes to stare down into his mug and murmured, “One would indeed have to be a fool.” He caught sight of Eryndes across the field. Her and her midwife friend together once more, laughing as they set out trays of fruit and nuts. 

Úrion continued happily, “You found a way to be their champion, now they’re your greatest advocates. Perhaps if you try the same with Faron?”

Was that the key? Become her champion? The prospect of becoming her champion was highly appealing.

“Father,” Laeron greeted coming up from along the line of tables and through the gathering crowd, “Mother demands you attend her.”

“A husband’s duty is never done,” Úrion set down his wine then spoke directly to his son, “A good lesson for you to learn well, boy.”

“Yes, father,” Laeron agreed easily, bringing his ale up for a drink-

Úrion snatched it from his hand and silenced Laeron’s outrage with a stern finger, “Leave the ale for the men. If you want there’s wine.”

Laeron sent his father’s departing back a scathing but silent rebuke. Remembering Legolas was also there, the young ranger faced him with a blush, “Forgive me, Sindar. I mean no disrespect to my father. He simply . . .”

“Fails to see you as an adult?” he offered sympathetically.

“Exactly!”

“I know this well.”

Laeron beseeched him, “Then what do I do?”

His face hardened, “Live happily with the knowledge your father loves you.”

The boy’s usual easy manner stiffened and he inclined his head respectfully, “Yes, Sindar.”

He took another long draught of wine, wishing, praying for the Dúnedain’s barrels never to empty. “I know not the lessons of a Dúnedain husband, but the lessons for sons are universal. If a father’s duty is to watch over his children ‘til cometh his last breath, it so then falls to his children to endure his endless love with patience and grace. Though difficult at times, as sons we must tolerate.”

Legolas brought the mug to his lips only to find it empty; again. “Though a son may choose distance from his father to prove unto himself.”

Laeron smiled, “Mirkwood is indeed a fair distance away from one’s father.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“Not that I was thinking . . .  I know my place is here . . . but what an honour, I mean well, you’re here, perhaps one day a ranger may be invited to serve under King Thranduil. Not me, obviously, but a worthy enough ranger-” 

“Laeron,” Legolas stopped him.

“Sorry, Sindar,” the boy’s young face faced the ground.

Legolas refilled his mug, swearing it the last time for a while lest he drink the barrel dry. He filled a spare mug from the table and handed it to Laeron.  

“Another couple weeks and the games would’ve been abandoned altogether,” Laeron mentioned awkwardly, taking the wine. “Faron says the weather’s late-”

“Laeron,” Legolas stressed, “the honour would be Lasgalen’s but now is not the time. Your people need you here.”

The boy gave a solemn nod before taking a sip of wine. Watching him, Legolas felt a warm fondness; a strange kind of kinship in recognising his younger self in the boy.

Across the grass field the gathering of people spread out; some moved away from the painted ropes whilst others were taking leather straps and marshalling two by two. “Tell me the goal of this game?”

Laeron followed his eyes, “We call it three-legged-mule; two are tethered to one another and must reach the finish rope first. It’s not easy.”

“Their legs are tethered?” he watched, surprised to see Eryndes and her midwife friend tying their legs together.

“Making three legs, yes. It is far trickier than appears. The afternoon games are for women and children mostly.”

“Your father disagrees,” Legolas nodded at Úrion strapping his leg to a small woman barely over two thirds his size.

“Mother always insists upon her and father competing in the games together.”

Legolas looked at Laeron, seventeen years old and almost as tall and broad as his father, then back to the tiny woman. “Your mother-?” he stammered.

Laeron chortled, “Yes, my mother. I’m surprised you haven’t met her. Though, I do say she’s easily missed in a crowd of tall folk.”

“You mother is so . . . little.”

“Aye. As father says ‘love comes in all shapes and sizes’.”

Legolas closed his eyes then opened with a grimace, “Your pardon, Laeron, I did not mean to be disrespectful.”

“It’s a common reaction,” Laeron assured him. “And I won’t be the youngest for much longer. Normally they’d compete in the barrel race and some others but with mother’s condition . . .”

Still struggling, he looked back at Úrion’s wife, “Truly? A sixth child?” He’d seen two of Laeron’s siblings; how ever did so small a woman produce such big children . . . and keep producing them? How did they even create them with Úrion being as large a man as he was?

Laeron was still grinning knowingly at him.

“Felicitations,” he offered, forcing the unbidden voyeuristic puzzle from his mind.

If at all possible Laeron’s smile grew even bigger, “Thank you. Mother’s hoping for a girl,” he shrugged, “after five sons.” 

“Your mother must be . . .” words failed him.

“Robust?” Laeron suggested wryly.

His face broke and laughed lightly to cover his unease, “Forgive me, Laeron.”

The boy simply held up his mug, “To the robust women of the Dúnedain?”

Mirroring him, he joined in the salute with another short chuckle, “The robust women of the Dúnedain.”

Both of them took a drink and the sound of stones struck together drew their attention.

The three legged mules darted forward from the start.

Or most did.

Eryndes and her friend clung to each other, trying their best to keep their legs working in tangent, but failed less than one third of the distance from the starting rope. They both landed on top of one another, succumbing to a fit of laughter.

Legolas found it hard not to smile watching them and how they tried to help each other up only to fall back down to the grass. 

“A waste of time,” a new voice spoke up from his side.

The delight dropped from his face. He answered without facing the newcomer, “What is the harm in a bit frivolity?”

“Frivolity in the middle of a war?”

Although nowhere as difficult to deal with as Faron, Sírdhem’s fondness for despair was a constant injury to the morale of those around him.

Legolas breathed in, reluctant to draw his attention away from the merriment. “Considering the recent losses, you truly believe all focus should linger upon evil?”

“Victory over evil is not won playing games.”

“Victory is long forsaken if naught but evil’s dark influence dwells in the hearts of people.”

He could hear Sírdhem’s teeth grind but the man fell into silence.

Legolas held in a chuckle seeing Eryndes trip once more and take her friend with her, again. The two women were the worst; the other competitors having already long finished. Úrion and his wife did quite well however, finishing half a step behind the winners.

“Then you ought to take part, Sindar,” Laeron spoke up.

“Why must I?”

“Show folk it’s okay to be merry. Father does. Strider does.”

He watched the two women finally make it to the finishing mark; breathing hard and faces red but smiles bright. “The midwife chooses a poor partner,” he appraised finally. “Were Eryndes my partner, I should have carried her.”

“And be disqualified for cheating,” Aragorn pointed out rejoining them, “Both must to finish under their own power.”

“Obviously they require much practice.” Could he perhaps offer to train them?

“Competing is not about winning, melloneg. Besides, Eryndes and Gueniel have competed together since they were kids. I doubt any amount of practice would aid them.”

“My family’s killers are out there!” Sírdhem’s sudden outburst made them recoil. “And here we are playing games. And you! You might’ve killed those responsible.”

Sírdhem’s remarks cut deep and Legolas felt his irritation grow, “I may have tried and no doubt failed. I cannot defeat odds of seventy to one. Would my death make losing your family less painful?”

Sírdhem snarled, “What do you know of the pain of loss?”

His head snapped to the side and glared fury at the man. “Much.” 

Sírdhem held his challenge while the others shuffled uncomfortably around them. Aragorn started to reach for his shoulder, but he flicked a direct warning at him with his eyes. Aragorn’s arm lowered in defeat.

Legolas returned to Sírdhem. 

But he found the man’s anger now absent; posture slackened and he stared out at nothing. At once all there was to be seen was a man, broken.  

A lump rose in his throat. He knew better than most the words of anger spoken out of heartbreak. He knew better than to rise to them.

Sírdhem sighed finally, raising his head to take in the musicians and merry folk at play. “My daughters, they loved this day.”

An uncomfortable air fell over the group until Aragorn cleared his throat, “But your wife didn’t.”

Sírdhem’s bleak face broke and smiled, “No, she didn’t. Despised it.” 

“You and the girls dragged her to every one of the games.”

The smile grew. “We did.”

“As I recall, she often feigned injuries to sit out.”

Sírdhem surprised him again, this time by chuckling, “No, she was never a great sport.”

Aragorn shared the moment of happy memory while they watched. Legolas felt a keen admiration for his friend. Aragorn knew his people. He knew them well. Not even with his own people did Legolas have such an acute knowledge or familiarity.

A shift to the air moved about in their surroundings and captured his attention.

He felt her presence; slowly, softly, her nimble feet cautiously approaching. He even heard her swallow.

“Briel?” Legolas called out, crossing his arms over his chest, the men around looking at him in surprise, “What was our agreement about your sneaking?”

“I wasn’t sneaking,” came the stubborn whine from behind him.

Turning about, Legolas saw as expected; the little girl hiding behind the tree, “Do not lie.”

But Briel wasn’t looking at him but at the others; her small bright blue eyes demurred and shy.

“Briel?” he said firmly, watching her small fingers fiddle with the edges of her sketch book. 

“Briel?” Laeron gently asked, “What is it, honey?”

“Is something wrong, Briel?” Aragorn asked.

For once Legolas knew better of the child, “Step forward.”

Immediately, Briel did as he instructed with small steps.

“Head up, child.”

Briel breathed in and came to stand in front of him, raising her face to him meekly.

“Now, speak.”

Briel shook her head. Instead she lifted her book to him. Legolas took it and opened to the page marked. 

Another drawing of him. Even with his absence over the last couple days, Briel’s talent had captured his likeness exceedingly well; only this time his face was no longer drawn and austere.

This time he was smiling.

He dropped his hand, securely landing on her shoulder before her feet made more than half a turn to flee.

“What is it, Sindar?”

Legolas didn’t answer Sírdhem’s question and turned Briel back to face him, “Why are you acting this way?” 

Briel looked up at him hesitantly, “Do you . . . like it?”

“Well of course I like it,” he answered sternly then smiled.

Briel’s face lit up brighter than the afternoon sun.

“Show us?”

Legolas raised an eyebrow at her. At Briel’s nod he handed the book to Aragorn.

Aragorn took the book then laughed in good nature, “She’s made you look pleasant.”

“He is pleasant!”

The men all looked from the drawing down to Briel. Quickly, she retreated; stepping back away from them and into Legolas’ side, her small arms wrapping around him.

“I am pleasant,” Legolas smirked nodding at the book, “And there is your proof.”

“Sindar?” Briel asked quietly when he returned the book to her. She breathed in and continued, “will you team with me wheelbarrow race?”

Legolas blinked down at her. He opened his mouth to refuse but the sweet plea on her face . . .

“The wheelbarrow race is for daughters and her kinsmen,” Úrion gently explained, coming to his rescue, “Why don’t you ask your father?”

“His knee is bad,” she said quietly, “Uncle Amdirbarad and I always teamed but . . .”

Grief filled her young face and Legolas’ heart sank. Not even one so young was spared from loss.

“Briel, if you wish, I will team with you,” Sírdhem suggested quietly, “We are kin. Langwen was my cousin.”

Briel looked at Sírdhem cautiously then held up her hand with a nod. Sírdhem took her hand and Briel lead him away. She stopped though, turning back to him, “Will you come watch?”

“Alas,” Legolas said genuinely, “I must help set up-”

“Go,” Aragorn interrupted, handing him another wine filled mug, “We're almost done anyway. If you won't compete you can at least watch your admirer.”

* * *

 

 

The hours passed. Briel was finally called away by her mother to dress for the evening, as went most of the women. The male-folk and a few of the female rangers who elected not to change attire stood around in languish, drinking and laughing while waiting for their return.

Slowly the women-folk returned in clumps. The children came first, trying hard not to run in their long skirts. Then handfuls of younger women, older women.

Then finally she was there. Walking up from the manor in parade with a few of the other mistresses. They all wore their best. Colours and fixings era unseen. The mistresses did look splendid in all their finery. 

None of the others robbed him of breath like she did. 

No less than a beguiling siren.

The style of her dress was quite the departure from the loose-drape of her everyday wear. Although the long loose sleeves and skirt concealed her arms and legs, the drop of her neckline and cosy hug from shoulder to hip parted his lips and lowered his jaw.

He swallowed spying the cleft between her breasts, peeking no more than an inch above the hem but yet enough to warm his blood. 

She continued past with her companions, the light of a hundred fires and candles caressing upon her fair skin. 

Her dark hair, two long thick interwoven braids, followed past the sweet nape of her neck and exposed collarbone, down the length of her back. The prominent curve from slender waist to feminine hips was embellished by a faded golden sash sitting just above the full swell of her round bottom.

A shiver born of no chill shook through his body; pleasant and yet unmistakably primal.

She was a siren.

Legolas righted his head at once, jaw clamping, his eyes swiftly rising to eye level. But it was too late. Suddenly the noise of the crowd was unbearably loud.

“It must be hard.”

“What must be hard?” Legolas asked quietly.

“Being here, so far from home, bereft of your kind and yet surrounded by so many women.”

He cleared his throat, “I suffer from no such abstinence.”

Foruyndes’ smugness hit him without having to look upon her, “Clearly, as you’ve already admitted some to be not so unattractive to the eyes of an elf. Beautiful even, as I recall.”

Holding his jaw solid, he faced her, “You, lady, are devious.”

Foruyndes took his arm, “Apparently not as devious as you. I’d dare say none but me know it I’d wager. Most never see beyond their noses. But not Foruyndes. Foruyndes can see, I assure you. My eyes see well.”

He longed to flee. Instead, he continued to face her with dread filling his stomach, “I am far from devious.”

She clucked her tongue, “What would Strider think of you? Ogling his sister with eyes to make any maiden blush?”

Tingling warmth crept up from his neck to his face, “I was not . . . ogling.”

“Sindar,” she reproached. “My eyes do not lie. But please, do tell; do all male elves secretly hunger for the bounties of mortal flesh or only you?”

“I find nothing-” he stopped before his defensiveness called forth a lie. “Foruyndes, perhaps your limit is far reached,” he reached for her brandy-

She snatched her hand back far quicker than he’d have given her credit. She winked, “Are you ashamed your eyes seek not your own kind?” 

Legolas reacted with the speed of a striking serpent. “I must insist your limit is reached.”

Foruyndes stared at her empty hand in wonder, her fingers slow to realise they no longer held the flask. “Or perhaps I am wrong and this is only a pleasant addition to an existing admiration?” Swivelling her aged eyes back to him, the glaze was gone and replaced by clarity, “She is your lovely, is she not?

He breathed in. Then again and deeper. “Perhaps I merely happen to admire her . . . choice of a more . . . becoming colour this evening.” At the very least it was true.

“You find her lovely. There’s nothing wrong with my memory.”

Legolas held himself tall, “What are you after, Foruyndes?”

Surreptitiously, Foruyndes leaned into him and whispered, “It is more than her virtue you desire? Isn’t it?”

Blood pooled in his face. “I am an elf! I have no-” he stopped mid-sentence, his tongue unwilling to tell a falsehood.

“Yes? You have no? What? You’re an elf and . . .?”

He stubbornly remained silent.

“Sindar?”

Finally, he let go and unclenched his fists. No matter what he said, Foruyndes was far too observant and wouldn’t be persuaded. He could only hope she was as she claimed to be; a Keeper of Secrets. “I admit I find her likeable.”

“Aye,” she poked at his shoulder, “I have long seen the result of such an admission. It is always the same; children.”

Slowly he shifted around to face her and Foruyndes took his glare as encouragement. “Well? Do you plan to ogle all evening, or shall you act? You won’t get anywhere if you simply stare. Imagine how much more pleasing it would be dancing with a colour so becoming?”

Legolas looked away, his eyes watching everyone at once, but seeing none. “I believe there are a few hours remaining before dancing commences.” 

“True,” Foruyndes approved before poked him again, “however only the fool waits. Do you not think the maidens of age are not the first to be snatched up, each proceeding dance long promised to another?”

He frowned, “My understanding was seeking beforehand is not customary amongst the Dúnedain.”

“And you do everything customarily?”

A long drawn breath gushed out through troubled lips, “Foruyndes . . .”

Foruyndes raised a wrinkled eyebrow and waved her hand for him to speak.

But the tension built up again immediately. He dropped his eyes, “I do not know how - how do I speak to what is in my heart?”

“Don’t! That is precisely what you shouldn’t do. Now is not the time for heart-speak.” She relieved him of the brandy and took his arm again but this time to guide him towards the crowd, “Just go over there. Ask her to promise you a dance. Tell her she looks pretty tonight.”

His eager gaze found Eryndes once more. She was talking with Lobordir now, both smiling broadly and laughing with others whom he did not know. “Does she not every night? Every day?”

Her surprising firm grip tightened around his arm. “Then go tell her. Though I’d hold back on mentioning how the sight of her in her grandmother’s dress makes you long to lie with her.”

He shot back to his friend, “I thought no such thing!”

“That’s the spirit,” she pushed at him, “Go on.”

“How can you be so vulgar?” he stammered, unwilling to forgive her suggestion even if it was born from drink. 

Foruyndes simply chortled, “Is it vulgar to desire the woman you find likeable? Does the adoration in your eyes not stir a fever?”

Legolas felt the warmth in his blood once more-

“If not, Sindar,” she lamented with a slow sad shake of her head, “then I must conclude you elves are without passion. No wonder your kind make so few babies-” 

“Elves have passion-!”

“What a shame!” she sniffed, “Perhaps it's best you allow all the young men claim her dances after-all. I’d hate to condemn a dear sweet girl to a passionless love from a passionless fellow. Perhaps Joust or even young Bregol-”

“Excuse me,” he snapped and took to the crowd, shuffling his urgent way towards where Eryndes and Lobordir were still standing.

Of course he knew Foruyndes had cunningly played him like a chess piece. Again. Yet, was she not correct? What good did it do to sit back and stare? 

Could he bear watching her dance with everyone but him?

“Dúnedain!” 

Legolas’ feet came to a reluctant halt. 

He was too late.

“Dúnedain!” Aragorn repeated, shouting out over the crowd of chattering people from the raised platform next to the master’s table. 

Lobordir guided Eryndes out of the crowd towards the master’s table and although he too was meant to be seated there, Legolas didn’t move towards the table. His gaze didn’t move from where Lobordir’s hand rested at the small of her back. 

The crowd dispersed quickly, heading to the edges of the grass to where the tables were set up, making a large circle in the centre.

“Good evening! Let’s have the winners from the earlier games come forth for their prizes. As they do, please let the competitors step forward for the Ranger’s Challenge!”

“Before the feast?” someone from the crowd called.

Aragorn nodded, “To save time, yes. We’ll start during the feast. Come, who will be the first to step forward?”

Legolas felt his friends come up beside him. Lobordir, having delivered Eryndes to the Master’s table, was quickly retracing his steps and heading directly for him.

“Have you changed your mind?”

“Concerning?” Legolas asked him.

Lobordir waved at him and his friends who’d continued to close in, “The Challenge?”

“I have no wish to compete.”

“Why not?” Camaenor asked from beside him. Even though the blacksmith was taciturn to Eryndes, he seemed to have taken a liking to Legolas, so far as to say friendly. “Not only do the challengers get to showcase their skills in front of all, but are also rewarded for doing so.”

“Only if you win,” Lobordir corrected.

“Sindar won’t compete. He ‘wants for nothing’,” Laeron chimed in from behind. “Though I think Sírdhem might be planning on giving him a bouquet of orc heads.”

“That was a joke, you fool,” Sírdhem growled from the other side of him. 

Laeron just shrugged then stepped forward, “My lord, I submit my challenge.”

“Whom do you wish to challenge, Laeron?”

“Camaenor.”

“No surprise there,” Úrion grumbled, coming to stand with him and in front of the others. “Boy’s been talking about nothing but that darn sword for weeks. If only he spent the same amount of attention on his betrothed.”

Legolas raised his brow at his friend, “Laeron is betrothed?”

Úrion didn’t answer instantly. He was silent while Laeron and Camaenor bid their pledges to the challenge. “Few years ago he was discovered alone with a young girl. Both of them swears nothing scandalising happened but folk talk. For the benefit of their reputations it was decided they should marry.”

“Yet he does not wish to wed her?”

Úrion looked sombrely at him, “No. Neither of them do. The girl even offered to be examined . . .” Úrion took a long drink from his mug, “It didn’t matter. Once a rumour starts . . . folk know better.”

What could he say? He couldn’t console Úrion or condemn his son’s actions on his father’s words alone. Regardless, Laeron was an honourable ranger; no doubt he would do right by the girl if they were indeed to be bound.

Two more rangers stood up to challenge each other before Bregol stood forward and announced himself ready to be challenged. For less than a heartbeat Legolas considered stepping forward. But there was little need. There was no longer any jealous need to break the boy’s teeth. Or take out his tongue.

 “Anymore challenges?” Aragorn called out to the crowd.

“I stand to be challenged, Strider.”

Finally. It began to look like the young ranger decided to give up his folly. 

“What prize do you seek?”

“Your permission, my lord.”

Aragorn was surprised, “My permission, ranger?”

Baradon swallowed, holding his fists tightly at his sides. But when he spoke, he spoke loud and clear for all to hear, “Your permission to marry Celegeth.”

The gasp of five hundred people filled the air.

Looking across the crowd, the girl was easily spotted; plump in figure but with a kind, handsome face and a very excited smile on her comely features. A gaggle of equally excited women surrounded her, all eager to share in the happy announcement.

Baradon had approached her then, before revealing his intentions to the whole of Carthal. This made Legolas smile.    

Aragorn finished speaking with the other master’s and returned his address to Baradon, “I’m sorry. Permission for marriage can only be obtained by a majority vote of six masters. I cannot bestow permission at this time. Come see me privately tomorrow and we shall discuss this further.”

Baradon looked crushed. His sweetheart looked crushed. The women around her were outraged.

“Do you have another prize to seek?” Aragorn asked empathically.

Baradon started to shake his head-

Legolas stepped forward, “By your leave, my lord, a moment?” Without waiting for Aragorn to answer he grabbed Baradon’s shoulder and spoke quietly. 

Letting him go, he stood back.

Baradon smiled and spoke out loudly, “May I request my prize be Celegeth and I join your table tonight, the Masters’ table, presenting ourselves together for consideration and that we may dine together as prospective husband and wife?”

Aragorn stood up taller and smiled at Baradon, “Accepted. Who will answer Baradon’s challenge?” Aragorn called out to the crowd. There were a few interested parties and from the looks of them, Baradon would have his prize.

“Are there any more challenges?”

Another ranger stepped forward . . .

Beaming, Baradon inclined his head to Legolas, “Thank you, Sindar.”

Legolas returned the gesture, “Your bride hopeful appears happy.”

Face reddening, Baradon rubbed the back of his head, “She called me a fool for taking so long.”

“I never would’ve guessed you of all elves were romantic,” Sírdhem commented from behind him.

“Indeed, I am not,” he told him. “The answer was simple.”

“Easy to romantics perhaps,” Sírdhem’s words were teasing but without malice. 

Legolas watched the rest of the challengers step forward without reply. He was the last to ever be accused of being romantic. 

He was after-all just a warrior. Romance belonged to poets and dreamers. 

He rethought that - Just a warrior and a poor poet perhaps. Certainly not romantic.

Aragorn looked around the crowd, “I think there’s place enough for one more challenge. Anyone?”

“I wish to challenge.”

“Whom do you wish to challenge?”

Faron looked about him. “I am willing to stand and be challenged.”

“Very well,” Aragorn waved him forward to speak, “your prize?”

The hunting master pointed behind Aragorn to the Masters’ table, “A kiss from our fair Mistress of Carthal.”

Shock and chatter rose from the crowd, and all eyes turned to a red faced Eryndes. She looked about her. All the folk were staring at her. Expecting her answer.

A beast rose from deep within Legolas’ belly, screaming for blood. Faron was lucky, for if he were any closer  he’d already be knocked to the ground.

“Eryndes?” Aragorn pressed.

Eryndes rose from her chair and then dipped her head in acceptance. The crowd cheered and she quickly retook her seat.

“Accepted,” Strider called. “Who will take Faron’s challenge?”

Legolas twisted and burned. Why did she accept? Did she fancy Faron? Or simply gave into the pressure of the crowd? 

Legolas stepped away from his companions, his brain on naught but injuring Faron. “I challenge Faron!”

“And your prize?” Aragorn questioned in surprise.

Faron’s head on a pike? “I care for no prize.” 

“You must name a prize, my lord Sindar. That is the rule of the game.”

Rules mattered not when Eryndes’ pretty lips were in danger. 

Or any other part of her. He shuddered. 

But what prize could he possibly request-? 

“I will take Faron’s prize.”

Faron gave one stiff nod.

“Your challenge is accepted,” Strider called. “What do you offer?”

Legolas tore his stare from Faron to Aragorn and took a moment to remember what he was being asked. What did he care for trinkets? “Let my opponent choose.”

“Faron?”

Faron grinned, “His knives.”

Aragorn gave Faron a patient look, “Unacceptable.”

“Why?” Faron argued.

“You cannot bid for token exceeding the worth of your own offering. Do you have a token equalling the value of mithril? Choose again.”

Legolas sighed, “My bow?”

Faron nodded, “I accept. Let my opponent choose my token.”

“Sindar?”

What could he possible want of Faron’s? What would cause the Hunting Master the most regret at its loss? He was particularly fond of his saddle pack; crafted by his own hand and with leather from a boar of his own kill.

Feeling particularly devilish, Legolas crossed his arms over his chest, “I will take his saddlepack. Faron knows which.”

Faron’s hideous grin shrunk but the man didn’t back down and gave his approval to Aragorn.

“Challenge accepted. Yours will be the last challenge of the night.” Aragorn eyed him for a moment before then smiling to the crowd. “Let the feast begin!”

Around him, the Dúnedain took their places at the tables or choosing instead to stand and eat. 

Legolas didn’t move and kept Faron within his sights.

Until Úrion stepped in front of him, disappointment clear on his lined face. “Come, let’s eat. But maybe Joust and I’ll sit between you and Faron.”

“It’s just a challenge, Bear,” Joust put in, “No-one ever gets more than a bruise or bloody nose.”

* * *

* * *

 

 

After an hour of hundreds of people feasting, Baradon and Celegeth proudly joined the Masters’ table. 

Legolas watched Celegeth carefully dab a handkerchief at Baradon’s split lip for the fourth time. She was a gentle creature, softly spoken and very polite. From the frequency of her smiles, one could believe her already a bride.

Legolas proudly watched Baradon’s match; his physical awareness improved every day and even employed some of the Mirkwood techniques Legolas had introduced to their group in close-combat training session only a few days prior. Baradon’s opponent never stood a chance and the match ended quickly.

The same could not be said for Laeron. Even against a competent warrior like Camaenor, most expected the younger man to walk away victorious. 

And from the confidence brimming in his walk, Laeron believed the same too.

However, Camaenor’s experience won outright. The blacksmith sized up young Laeron and used his superior size and strength cleverly. Laeron ended limping away with a mildly turned ankle and cut to his brow. 

Plus a wagon-full of valuable humility. 

A warm reminder about the sin of over-confidence was due however and perhaps should commence tomorrow at first light? When the many mugs of wine the boy already drank still pained his adolescent head. 

“Sindar? Perhaps you should drink more? Might help if you’re nervous.”

Glaring out the corner of his eye at Lobordir, he growled quietly, “Do not be ridiculous. Why should I be nervous?”

At the table, his two companions sat either side of him like royal guards. 

Úrion cleared his throat and asked very quietly, “Have you even kissed a woman before? Woman, elleth, female folk of any kind?”

The reality of the ‘prize’ hit him. His jaw clenched. “I have.”

“Your mother?” Lobordir suggested slyly.

Úrion was more patient and counselling than Lobordir’s, “You may not be aware but kissing a woman is quite different than kissing one’s own mother-”

“I am aware,” he shot back.

Lobordir put an arm across his shoulder, “perhaps we should give you a few suggestions-”

“Do not trouble yourselves,” he shifted to remove the offending hand, “I do not require ‘suggestions’.”

Úrion shrugged, “As you wish, but remember before marrying I was even better with the ladies than Joust-”

“So you think,” Lobordir cut in.

Úrion smirked at the younger man, “And never felt the need to boast. The women did the boasting for me.”

“Thank you both,” Legolas chilled, breaking up what sure was going to be another fruitless debate between his two friends, “but I believe myself equal to the task.” He flexed his leg and arm muscles to stop twitching. His stomach quivered, “when the time comes.”

Lobordir chewed his lip, “I thought elves considered kissing one they don’t love vulgar?”

Legolas’ eyes flicked over to where Faron sat, “Better than the alternative.”

Thinking about it left him breathless and warm. He surely wanted to kiss her, even if it was premature to call it love. Thinking of kissing her was . . . euphoric.

Kissing her was not the problem. 

How was she to think upon him? Would she understand he simply didn’t want Faron near her? Would she think him shameless and immoral?

Was his recklessness ruining their tentative rapport?

“Come, leave him be,” Úrion warned. “If only you’d stood up for Eryndes, another wouldn’t have needed to-“

“I didn’t see you stepping up,” Lobordir bit out.

“And risk my wife’s temper?”

“How can you be scared of a hobbit-sized woman?”

Úrion threw his arm across Legolas to point menacingly at Lobordir, “Watch your tongue-!”

“(Be silent)!” Legolas hissed at them, keeping his words quiet enough not to disturb the table of conversations around him. 

“I quite agree,” the woman sitting beside Úrion cut in. “I don’t know what the argument is about, but is this really the time? You want to thump upon each other? Then you should’ve issued a challenge. You didn’t. So don’t go spoiling everyone’s evening.”

Both men went back to their empty plates in silence. The woman, not quite small enough to correctly be called ‘hobbit-sized’, was now staring at him.

Legolas inclined his head. The woman, Úrion’s wife whose name he still didn’t know, gave a single nod then went back to her gossip with the woman next to her.

From the look of her, small or not, Úrion’s wife was formidable.

Down the length of the table, Legolas chanced a look at Aragorn and Eryndes. Neither was looking his way and he sighed.

When the call went up for the next challengers, Legolas gracefully stood without hesitation and walked to the middle of the circle. 

All the conversations at all the tables and surrounds stopped. They all looked on with anticipation. 

Faron, having come from the same table, followed him until they stood at the challenger’s marks, and was the first to break the silence.

“Pretty little thing, isn’t she?” 

Legolas frowned. Did he mean Celegeth? Or Úrion’s wife? “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play coy,” Faron showed his teeth in a wide grin, “I grant not pretty enough compared to elf-maids, but that smile of hers has sure left many a fellow dazzled.”

Did he mean . . . Eryndes?

Legolas set his jaw square, unwilling to believe Foruyndes would’ve betrayed him. “Speak plainly.”

Faron’s gaze flicked over Legolas’ shoulder to the Masters’ table, “Caught your fancy, hasn’t she? Why else would you take up my challenge?”

A shadow moved across his stomach, “What is it you think you know?”

“I have eyes,” Faron scoffed loudly, “And they see where yours . . . wander.”

“You did this on purpose? Why?” he demanded.

“Can’t say I see the attraction, myself. Far too much woman for my taste.” Faron crossed his arms over his chest, “I hadn’t planned for you to answer my challenge but I will enjoy this all the same.”

“Then why?”

Faron laughed, “Perhaps I just like to meddle in other’s affairs.” 

There was no doubt, Faron was lying.

Legolas took up an aggressive stance, widening his feet for battle, “(Speak the truth)!”

Faron widened his stance too, face becoming serious, dropping his elbows to his sides, fists readied. “I wanted to know if I was right about you. Even Aragorn doesn’t see it. Perhaps he never expected his sister to capture the attention of . . . the elf-prince himself.”

Legolas’ guard dropped, so did his heart, and his jaw.

“You don’t deny it then?” Faron asked smugly. “I’m two for two.”

“How?” Sickness filled his heart. All this time? All the arguments, all the insults and banter; all of it had been staged.

Staged to encourage Legolas to reveal himself.

“Let’s just say we’ve met. You don’t remember. Understandable since I don’t remember much myself,” his eyes glazed, “I was only a small lad at the time.” His came sharply back into focus, “I wasn’t completely certain it was you, not until now.”

Taking half an eye off Faron, Legolas couldn’t help looking around them. All of those people. Practically every Carthal Dúnedan was present tonight; every one of them watching him and Faron. 

How their faces would change if they knew the truth? His friends, Úrion, Lobordir? Young Baradon and younger Laeron? And comrades like ballsy Cordoves, morose Sírdhem and jovial Trîw? The chess wizards, Úan and Dagnir? The women of the kitchen and housekeeping like Mydedis and vulgar Sali? Briel and all the other children?

Foruyndes?

And what of Eryndes? How would she look upon him now? Would her eyes once more refuse to meet his?

Again Faron threw him. “Don’t worry, my lord Legolas. I won’t tell them.”

“Why not?” he spat, “Is this not the point? Is your purpose not blackmail? Extortion?”

“The point is I know the truth but I’m not going to tell them. For now that is all you must know. And remember.”

“For now? Why? When did we meet? Why have you done this?”

Faron brought up his hands into a higher guard position, “These folk expect a good and fair fight; can’t bore them by talking all night. You better fight well, I don’t plan going down easy but I have no desire to kiss your woman. Now fight!”

Legolas knew Faron was quick and agile, but this was different. The moment Legolas uttered his ready, Faron struck. Launching himself forward, the man came in hard. 

Holding his ground, he held off Faron’s quick hard attacks, but didn’t expect such ferocity. Twice his defence almost let Faron strike him in the chest.

And Faron didn't stop smiling.

Stepping in closer, Legolas brought the fight in tighter. Every millimeter of space between them had to be precise; every shift of weight and strike along with block and counter strike would either win or lose the battle. He took the challenge to Faron. He would take the ugly smirk off the man’s face.

Faron anticipated him though, drawing in closer to entangle their legs and a grapple hold to his neck. Legolas used his superior strength to break the hold, widening his stance and enabling his muscles to pry Faron off him.

Again, Faron anticipated him. With a chuckle between pants, Faron released him and stepped away. Legolas, overcommitted to his solid stance and power to his arms, was too sluggish to block Faron’s attack. 

A painful cuff to the back of the head told him Faron spent time studying him well. The student knew his teacher.

However, the hit was not perfect. Though painful, Faron’s fist hit too much to the left and deflected off the curve of his skull.

Faron sniggered, “Go for the head, right? Disorientate?” 

Legolas narrowed his eyes, “You are a poor student, you missed.”

Faron is still smug, “I guess I must have-”

Too smug. The man didn’t anticipate. While distracted, Legolas leapt with a feint to his right, at the same time bringing his knee up hard into Faron’s other side. It was a risky move. Had Faron anticipated it, Legolas would’ve been completely open and defenceless. 

But Faron hadn’t.

Legolas eyed the downed man, “Tell me! How did you know?!”

Faron jumped easily back to his feet, rotating his shoulder with a small grimace, “Think somebody else told me? You have so little faith in the Dúnedain, so quick to suspect your own friends? Whomever knows your secret never told me.” With quick footwork, Faron regained ground and they were once more trading blows to blocks within a tight space.

Legolas clipped off most of the attacks with his forearm and struck back with the same movement. He saw an opening to Faron’s lower knee-

But it was a feint; Faron grabbed him by the waist, stepping into him and locking their legs. Faron knew he had to keep Legolas from moving. That was how to gain an advantage over a light footed elf. Legolas had shown this to his students.

And again Faron learnt well.

“What would the elf-king say? His son fancying a mortal?”

A snarl erupted inside Legolas’ chest and he let go. Faron surely expected him to lash out after his taunt. Instead, Legolas let go of Faron, and the ground. Although Faron was strong, the sudden weight upon his grapple lock took him by surprise and they plummeted to the grass. 

Free from any anchorage, Legolas leaped up and somersaulted over Faron’s head. His feet barely touched the grass before he launched an angry punch at Faron.

But his focus on hurting Faron didn’t allow him to see the secondary attack, a hard fist coming from the side, straight into his face.

Pained and disoriented, Legolas stumbled backwards, the ground rising fast to meet him . . .

 

 

 

 

 


	15. Go The Spoils (Part Two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Thanks to all who reviewed, kudos, favourited and followed. I am still not worthy!
> 
> ** Thanks to my beta, Frannel, for her continued patience and boundless inspiration. 
> 
> *** I feel I must apologise for the cliffhanger ending in Part One. I hate cliffhangers just as much as anybody else. But, I felt I needed to let everyone know I’m still around and writing and therefore posted even though Part Two wasn’t ready. So please, no pitchforks!
> 
> **** Sometimes I read reviews and wonder. Sometimes I wish I could answer or ask further questions. From here on, if anyone would like me to respond to reviews, answer questions, or allow me to ask any follow up questions in regards to their review, please use the ‘Sindar Signal’ - **** (four stars) after your comment, question etc and I will PM you. Thanks!
> 
> ***** Once more, all Sindarin indicated by brackets. 
> 
> 00000

 

“Can it be? Sindar’s going to lose?”

Eryndes watched Sindar stumbled backwards in horror, his legs crumpling under him. 

The mighty elven warrior fell to the ground.

Faron surged after him ready to finish the challenge. But his fist struck nothing.

Hitting the ground, the elf used the momentum of his fall to roll over his head to his feet in a low crouch. Faron threw another hit at him.

This time Sindar grabbed him, then spun out on his other hand to shove a bent leg into the man’s stomach and threw him backwards.

Standing, Sindar rubbed his cheek and spat out a mouthful of blood.

_Charming_. 

Swallowing one’s own blood probably wasn't exactly pleasant but still, Eryndes would have to kiss that blood stained mouth if he won.

Her hands trembled in her lap. Eyeing the small tumbler of courage Foruyndes slipped her earlier, Eryndes discretely snatched it up. Another whole mouthful of brandy burned its way down her throat and warmed her belly. 

But where was the courage?

There was probably enough left in the tumbler to make another full mouthful-

“Any moment now.”

Just as covertly, she replaced the brandy on the table. “Any moment, what? Is Sindar losing?”

The elf did get whacked pretty good in the face. The sickness in her stomach deepened. 

Being far too engrossed in watching the match, Aragorn didn’t answer. 

Through the first half of dinner Eryndes hadn’t spoken one word to him. Eventually he grew frustrated and quietly demanded an explanation . . .

_“Why did you permit it? Allowing me to be used as a . . . a prize?”_

_Aragorn was taken aback, “Why did you? You could’ve refused.”_

_“Refuse when you of all people had not?” She turned from him and glared around them, “What a marvellous situation! As if the people haven’t long thought me and my inheritance a prize to fight over. Now it is ever so simple: win a fight and earn a spot at the Masters’ table, a seat to Lord Aragorn’s right hand as the new head of Carthal! I always knew Faron was ambitious but I never thought-”_

_“Calm yourself,” Aragorn hushed taking her arm and coaxing her back around to face him. “No one is going to win your hand in a fight. That I would never permit,” he told her seriously before sitting back in ease, “Don’t take this personally. Faron and Sindar have something of a score to settle which has nothing to do with you.”_

_Her fury lessened enough for her vision to clear and stared at him in confusion, “Nothing to do with me? Then why-“_

_“Faron and Sindar don’t get along, I don’t think that’s unknown to anyone. Faron’s probably set this up just to make trouble.” He laughed, “Trust me, Faron has no intentions towards you or your inheritance.  And Sindar? I wasn’t expecting him to step up but I’m not truly surprised. He wouldn't pass up the chance to take Faron down a few pegs.”_

_Still mad at Aragorn but not quite as much, Eryndes went on to make a fine show of enjoying her meal. She kept polite conversation with those around her as decorum dictated. She laughed at the jokes, paid keen attention to the tales and even joined Sali and Mydedis in singing a small ditty . . ._

Honestly though, she wished herself far away. Regardless of what Aragorn believed, the people of Carthal had ideas of their own. What absurd gossip would arise from Faron and Sindar’s shenanigans?

Why did they have to involve her? And a kiss of all things!

Flicking her gaze from the challenge to the last mouthful of brandy, she reached for it-

“It’s almost done,” Aragorn finally answered, nodding towards the challengers, “Sindar’s been caught off guard by Faron’s ferocity. He won’t take it kindly and now Faron’s lost the element of surprise. Sindar will knock him down. Hard. He doesn’t take injuries to his pride lightly.”

“Sindar won’t hurt him, will he?”

Aragorn smirked not taking his eyes from the battle, “You would rather kiss Faron?”

“I would not!”

His smirk broadened, “Then you prefer Sindar?”

“I-,” a new blush heated up her cheeks in the cooling air and she hid her face by focusing on the fight once more, “Perhaps I rather kiss neither.”

In the circle, Faron recovered to his feet advanced. He got in close again and struck just as hard and fast as before, yet this time Sindar blocked. Easily, even to her inept eyes. The elf’s stance didn’t budge, his feet didn’t move. The ferocity of his regard was gone; his face now was a picture of stone cold focus. 

Faron threw both fists and feet at his chest and head. 

The elf blocked them all.

Eryndes knew very little about fighting, but even she could sense the change of mood. Faron’s attempts to keep the fight in close were countermanded by Sindar’s quicker feet; and it all seemed so effortless. 

Perhaps the knock to his head shook something loose?

“That’s it,” Aragorn announced. “Sindar’s had enough and Faron’s run out of surprises. He's finished.”

Eryndes opened her mouth to ask him to explain further-

In the same moment Sindar blocked a lunge from Faron, he stepped in right into him, and took hold of his wrist. Snapping it the opposite way, Sindar pushed Faron’s arm behind the elbow at a sickening angle to the shoulder, and smoothly turned his hip. 

Faron plummeted to the ground. Hard. 

Still holding Faron’s arm hard at the wrong angle, Sindar spoke words she couldn’t hear.

“What did he say?”

Aragorn laughed, “Better not to know. It wasn’t very polite.”

Victorious, Sindar released Faron.

Faron rose to his feet speaking animatedly. 

“I guess that wasn’t a compliment either?” she asked.

“Faron was gloating about drawing Sindar’s blood.”

Yes, Sindar’s _bloody_ mouth. Eryndes’ hands started to shake again. “I wish you might have taught me how to read lips. They were having quite the conversation out there before.”

“When?”

“When you went to get more ale,” she watched the two figures returning from the circle, “Just before they began.”

“I doubt I’d have been close enough,” he said, rising out of his seat, “They moved closer during the fight, when Sindar stumbled this way. Come, we must congratulate the winner and pay our due.”

“Pay my due, you mean,” she bit out but accepting his offered hand and rising.

“Sindar would hardly approve of me taking your place. Besides, there's a good chance he'll simply wave his prize away.”

Allowing him to lead her around the table, she pressed against his side to whisper, “Why?”

“Kissing isn’t fanciful like it is to men. It’s an intimate act of affection for elves.” He laughed in her ear, “And as far as I’m aware the two of you aren’t currently courting.”

“Of course not,” she refuted quickly, feeling her whole body burning now.

Aragorn gave her hand a squeeze then dropped her hand. Eryndes stood back from the raised platform. She bit her lip, the eyes of hundreds of fellow Dúnedain bore into her back.

Stepping upon the platform, Aragorn addressed the crowd, “Congratulations to our last winner of the night. And well done to Faron. I’m not sure the last time anyone succeeded in spilling Sindar’s blood. Sindar?”

Sindar stood to the side where his friends gathered to watch the fight, his grey eyes staring unamused at Aragorn.

Grinning in the face of Sindar’s glare, Aragorn waved him towards her, “Your prize, melloneg.”

Eryndes stood absolutely still but inside felt like she was dancing to a stout beat her nerves shook so bad.

Aragorn said he might turn down his prize. 

Yet so far he hadn’t. 

Instead Sindar walked over, passing his companions who were cheering even louder than the crowd. Eryndes waited, her boots feeling too snug and rogue hairs escaped from her braids tickled her face. If only she’d thought to feign sickness earlier, she’d be spared this spectacle. 

Surely it was only a simple kiss, a peck on the lips. From an elf. From an elf lord. From an elf lord who once flirted with her then pretended it never happened.

Just a kiss. She bit her lip. 

Stopping in front of her, his tall frame towered over her. His mouth didn’t look swollen or bloody from the challenge. But his stoic regard gave no hint to his thoughts. He didn’t speak. 

Then without preamble, Sindar simply reached out and took her hand. 

He wasn’t going to take a kiss from her?

Bowing low, he pressed his lips to her knuckles, holding for perhaps a hairsbreadth too long before straightening, “A more favourable substitute than the alternative, I hope?”

Understanding bolted through her; all embarrassment and awkwardness dissolved. Surprise and gratitude, along with quite a lot of wine and brandy swirling in her veins compelled her into ill-thought action. 

Reversing the grip on his hand, words gushed from her lips, “I am sorry Master Elf, but your prize was not to be this way. Upon my word, I am bound to pay my due.” Gratitude bolstering her boldness, she quickly brought his hand up before losing her nerve and pressed a kiss against his knuckles just as he’d done to her. 

Around them the crowd cheered and jeered.

He smelt warm and earthy, pleasing and resoundingly masculine; so ambrosial her breath held in deep within, savouring, before righting herself with a silent prayer he wasn’t offended.

Sindar was staring at her in surprise, a red tint upon his pale cheeks, his lips parted but silent. Then the silver of his blinkless eyes softened and Eryndes felt she was ice melting before a warm hearth.

Her breath caught tight in her chest.

“(I am honoured),” he whispered finally.

Quietly enough for only Sindar to hear, she tried to make him understand what he’d done for her, “Thank you. These are . . . silly games.”

“Your gratitude is unnecessary,” he reproached lightly, his smug arrogance returning. “No one should ever be forced to kiss Faron.”

A laugh escaped her. 

Sindar glanced to the side, perhaps realising the hundreds of people were waiting and inclined his head with a small smile before walking back to his friends.

“Sister, well done.” Aragorn wrapped an arm around hers and guided her back to their seats, “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“Nay,” she found herself admitting. Actually, she felt oddly . . . disappointed. 

Silly games. Silly prizes. Silly old maids thinking handsome elven lords would want to kiss them.

“Eryndes!”

Gueniel waved to her from across the grass where she sat at her table. “Aragorn?”

“Go on, then,” he released her arm and bade her forth, “but save the first dance?”

“Of course,” she promised. At moderate pace for a lady, Eryndes made a straight line for Gueniel’s table. There was so much to tell her friend.

Almost there, her step faltered. Squeezing her thumbs hard, she greeted him with all the politeness her mother ever taught her. “Good evening, Nestdôl.”

The old Healing Master stood in too close to her, his wrinkled face looming over her barely contained ire, like pickled gherkin brushed with lemon juice. “What was that?”

Her thumbs throbbed, her squeeze tightening. “I beg your pardon?” she asked innocently, edging to the side for escape.

"Flirting with an elf?!” Nestdôl blocked her path, “Have you lost your mind?”

“I beg your pardon?! I did nothing of the sort!” she hissed, hoping none were close enough to hear.

“Or do you think to gain the elf’s protection through,” his eyes dropped lower, “payment?” 

“How dare you?!” this time she barely held back a shriek, her face burning in humiliation. People around them stopped speaking and turned to look. She lowered her voice, “I am the Mistress-”

“Best you remember where the true rule of Carthal lies,” Nestdôl didn’t care about the carry of his voice, “Don't you dare forget.”

“Aragorn is the Chieftain-”

“Aragorn’s rule is fleeting and soon to return to the Wild. Whom do you think the families will follow when he does? You?” he laughed cruelly. “Best you save your flirtations for men. That is the extent of your true duty.”

Suddenly she felt very cold. “You filthy bast-”

“We grow impatient,” Nestdôl held a finger in her face, “make your bed soon or it will be made for you.”

“Eryndes! I have been calling you!” Gueniel called loudly coming sharply to her side. She grabbed her waist and firmly pulled her along, sending the old Healing Master a scathing rebuke, “Nestdôl? I believe your mead mug is calling you.”

“Watch your mouth, woman,” Nestdôl spat at Gueniel but strode away.

“What did he want?” Gueniel growled lowly, guiding them through the crowds of people.

“To scare me, what else?” she whispered just as quietly, “Thank you.”

“Strider needs to stick a blunt sword in Nestdôl’s gullet. His and the rest of the elder Masters. They think they rule Carthal.” 

“They think because they do. If it weren't for Aragorn-”

“Eryndes!” Gueniel’s mother cheered from the table ahead, “Come, come, we must know! What made you kiss Sindar when you needn’t have? You vixen! Well done!”

“Yes!” an aunt joined in, “Come sit. We're all dying to know!”

Then half the table was pleading for her tale of bravery and bravado, making Eryndes blush and smile.

Gueniel released her and they sat down together at Gueniel’s family table. Many greetings later, Eryndes gratefully took a cup of Gueniel’s grandmother’s sweet strawberry wine and a large cut of fruit cake. She laughed with them as she told the tale, and joined in their fervent praise of Sindar’s noble sacrifice to spare her from worse embarrassment.

Aragorn was her brother, but Gueniel and her kin were family, and all the Nestdôl’s nastiness was quickly forgotten.

Or perhaps only temporarily numbed. 

 

 

 

0000

 

“The time has come for music, my lord.”

Hearing Geledir’s announcement, Eryndes hastily put down her fork full of cake. 

She knew the second piece was a bad idea. Chewing quickly, she tried to swallow. Then tried again.

It was too dense. Clearly she indeed mucked up the count.

“Have some more wine,” Gueniel held up her cup.

Taking a long few gulps she drained the cup and forced it down; wine and all. Wine, brandy, then more and more wine. It wouldn't be the first time she’d danced with Aragorn more than just a tad tipsy. He of course would snigger at her, but hold her steady like a true nobleman.

From the other side of the circle at the Masters’ table, Aragorn nodded at her. He called out to the crowd, “Begin the dancing.” He stood and held out a hand to her, “Sister?”

Eryndes left Gueniel’s table and walked quickly, if a little unsteady over to accept his hand.

But he didn’t lead her back out to the grass.

Aragorn instead held her hand up high and looked down the table, “Sindar? Will you not partake of the first dance with the fairest partner?”

Eryndes’ hand clenched in his. He surely did not mean her. The first dance was always with Aragorn. Always. Or when he was actually there. The years when he wasn't, she never danced the first, choosing to sit out and watch in lament of his absence. 

And now he was giving her away?

Sindar looked just as surprised. Was Aragorn doing this to make a mockery of his friend?

Without having to look she could feel Nestdôl’s eye from halfway down the table, tingling the hair on her arms and the back of her neck.

Eryndes shivered.

Joust jumped at Sindar’s hesitation, “But Baineth’s already promised the first dance to another.” He winked in Eryndes’ direction, “Unless you’re talking about the old maid on your arm? I guess I could be persuaded into charity.”

Aragorn didn’t share in Joust’s humour, “I was not offering to you.”

Eryndes wasn’t impressed either. She tried to step back, “Come, Aragorn. The dance will start without us.”

Aragorn wouldn’t be moved, “Sindar?” 

Sindar finally looked in her direction, but didn't bother reaching her eyes when he spoke, “Best watch your feet, Eryndes. By my count Aragorn’s drank enough for three men.”

Aragorn gestured to him, “Then you will not save her feet?”

He looked away and answered quietly, “(I will not).”

Aragorn’s hold on her hand tightened. So did his voice, “Come, Eryndes, the music awaits.”

The moment her and Aragorn took their positions, his face turned hard. “Why did you do that?”

Her hand paused mid slid up upon his shoulder, “What did I do?”

“Sindar saw precisely how you felt. So did I. So did everyone. If I’d been him, I’d have been offended. I’m certain he was.”

“What did I do?” she repeated desperately, her insides becoming very hollow.

“Your face. Your posture. As clear as if you shouted it.” The music started and he lead her around the grass, but there was no grace, no joy, “I have asked you to befriend him-“

“Have I not done so?”

“To which I was glad. But then you snub him? In front of all who would call him friend? How can you be so cold?”

All the blood fell from her face, “No, no, Aragorn, I did mean to imply-“

“Intended or not, you clearly showed your feelings. You should have been honoured!”

Aragorn moved her about, keeping in time with the music, yet she felt so empty her feet moved on their own.

“No, I-” she gasped, guilt swallowing her whole. “No, Aragorn I just didn’t think- you and I, we always dance the first. Also everyone is always watching, wondering at whom I dance with and Nestdôl-”

“What of Nestdôl?”

The seldom seen anger from Aragorn made her cower, “He thinks I-”

“I care not for what he thinks! Nor should you. You know better than to listen to him!”

Tears itched in her eyes. She swallowed and forced on her breath as her mother taught her. No lady ever cried in public. Aragorn was angry. He was disappointed his eyes could only see her slight to his friend.

“I never meant to offend him,” she breathed carefully, “I have truly come to think of him as a friend. He and I, we are friendly.”

Aragorn stared at her, his face showing precisely what he was thinking.

Wishing the darkness of the night take her far away, again, she whispered, “I would have liked very much to dance with Sindar, especially after the challenge. But Nestdôl-”

He hissed through his teeth, “No more of your excuses.”

“Excuses?” she gasped. 

“I have heard enough!” he snapped. “You know as well as I Nestdôl is a cantankerous old man. Don't use him to excuse your own actions. If you wanted to dance with him, then you should have.”

They danced along in uncomfortable silence as the music filled the night. 

“Well, at least there is one good hearted woman here tonight,” Aragorn broke the silence, directing her gaze to the tables. Young Baineth was at the Masters’ table and speaking with Sindar. After a moment he rose from his chair and held out a hand, leading her away from the table and a red-faced Joust. 

“Baineth doesn’t think dancing with him beneath her dignity.”

Her stomach dropped and she stared agog at her brother. “I think nothing of the sort! Sindar is . . . skies above my own,” she shot another poisonous glance at Baineth, “And above hers too.”

Aragorn’s eyebrow rose, “She doesn’t seem to share your opinion.”

“She is young and bold.”

Aragorn was silent then pressed forward to kiss her forehead none too gently. It was not a kiss of affection but of rebuke, “You shouldn’t be so concerned of what the people or men like Nestdôl think.”

She bit her lip, “Why did you want me to dance with Sindar?” 

He looked down in forced patience, “Do you think I want to see him alone? On a night like this?” He lifted his head to stare through his brows, “Do you want to see him the only one left at the Masters’ table?”

Eryndes looked over at Sindar and Baineth dancing in perfection. The idea never occurred to her. “This was why you gave up the first dance? Our dance?”

Taking a moment, he eased her around the other dancers. “Sindar is dearer to me than any blood-brother,” he explained gently. “I hoped you would encourage him to join in, to include him in revelry. I despair seeing him forlorn and left out. Surely you can understand?”

A pain shot out from the back of her throat and pleaded up at her brother. “Aragorn, I . . .”

Aragorn tapped under her chin, the corner of his mouth lifting, “I wanted you to dance with him and encouraging others to do the same. I wanted to see him enjoying himself.”

Eryndes looked back to where Sindar and Baineth danced together; Baineth with a grace far surpassing any she hoped to possess. And Sindar? He looked . . . content and attentive to his partner, and his dancing was even more flawless than Baineth’s.

“I would very much like to see that too,” she admitted softly.

For two more dances, they moved just as they’d done all her life. The first time being when she’d stood on his feet, her arms wrapped around his midriff, face pressed into his stomach; far too embarrassed to be dancing with her brother’s friend in front of everyone.

Now, he was her brother and she could not be any prouder to dance with him. 

As the third dance neared the end, out the corner of her eye she saw Sindar sitting alone at the table. He didn’t look miserable, but he was alone and her heart ached seeing it.

“Have you overcome your inhibition?”

She looked to her brother, “Sorry?”

He knocked his head towards the master’s table.

She looked away meekly, “Nestdôl tried to scare me earlier. You were right, I should have been stronger.”

Aragorn lost his smile, “What did he say?”

Eryndes flinched, “He suggested I was flirting with Sindar, to gain his favour.”

Aragorn’s eye twitched, his lips quirking, “You flirted with my friend?”

Blood filled her ears, “Of course not. At least in my mind I wasn't.” His answering laugh made the blood pound, “Aragorn!”

“Peace,” he soothed, still chuckling, “If you do decide to dabble in flirting, perhaps you might let Sindar know that is what you're doing. I'm not sure if he could recognise it.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. If only Aragorn had seen just how well the elf knew of flirting the first day he rode to Carthal. 

“Do you seek his attentions?”

Aragorn’s cautious question shook her and took a pause before finding her voice, “He is an elf!” 

“That’s no answer.”

A laugh slipped awkwardly from her throat, “I think I know better than to fall for an elf!” She nodded at Baineth, “Like some foolish girl with fairy-tale beliefs of impossibility.”

Her brother’s eyes studied her at length. “Elves and men aren’t so very different.”

“Except they are immortal!” This was getting more ridiculous. “Aragorn, I tell you the truth. I do not seek his attentions. Only his friendship. Nestdôl desires me to capitulate and marry a man most likely of his own particular choosing. You were right. I should have not allowed him to influence me or my treatment of our friend.” She breathed in deeply and let go of Aragorn. “I will prove the lesson is learnt by doing as I should have earlier.”

Determined, she gathered all the courage she could muster, walked in the direction of the Masters’ table.

“Master Elf?” she gingerly called, coming alongside him.

He turned his eyes to her, his manner as coolly aloof as always. But Aragorn was right; he had every right to feel offended.

Gathering her wits she held out her hand to him with a coy smile, “Will you permit me a dance?”

His gaze didn’t waver from hers, not even to acknowledge her hand, and for the briefest heartbeats she felt once more like a tethered animal before a wolf.

But he didn’t make her wait any longer than a handful of beats from her racing heart. Gracefully standing, he took her hand in his; his grasp gentle, skin warm and smooth as it had been earlier and he lead her around the tables to join the other dancers.

Into position, Eryndes slid her hand up onto his shoulder, his around her back. Their palms came together, their fingers entwining between them. Then music started and Sindar lead her in step.

Moving together, being so close . . . was just too close.

He was truly beautiful.

Anyone with working eyes could see the elf was handsome. Standing so close however, space enough for only their interlocked hands between them made it much harder to ignore. Even in the late evening lit only by candle and fire, he was a bright morning sunrise over a crisp white winter’s morning; hair the colour of golden sunlight, pale skin and silver eyes of snow and ice, but a rare smile to warm the world.

His features could be so profoundly arrogant, so condescending, yet also incredibly soft and gentle. His modest nose and delicate line to his lips contradicted the strong outline of his jaw, full chin and the strong dark brows. His cheeks were soft like a boy yet to achieve his first beard. 

He was harmonious blend of blatant but beautiful masculinity and unspoiled youth, set upon the wisdom of ancient shoulders. Broad ancient shoulders.

And he was peering down at her, “Are you well?”

Eryndes blushed knowing she’d been staring for a good while. “I have done you an injustice,” she lamented at last.

“Have you?” he asked in a low tone.

She told the truth. Or at least the truth minus Nestdôl’s interference. Sindar did not need to know about that. “Before, I was unsettled and a little alarmed, I certainly didn’t mean any offence.” 

Sindar’s piercing eyes held her captive. This was part of why being around him unnerved her sometimes; his unblinking elf eyes seemed to look straight through to her soul. 

“Pay no mind,” he dismissed flatly.

With those words it was abundantly clear Aragorn was right; he was offended. Taking a breath, she tried even harder, “Aragorn and I always take the first dance, I mean when he is here and that is to say not very often . . . And he gave me no prior warning of his plan.  I also assumed you would not care for dancing,” she felt a fool and uttered quietly, “which is obviously . . . very wrong.”

Sindar’s cool regard didn’t change, “What gave you that idea?”

“I am not sure, I-I know very little of your customs and have heard a great many tales about elven sobriety,” she admitted, “and well, Aragorn, sometimes he likes to play these games, perhaps his suggestion was a mockery of you- and I didn’t want to make it worse-”

The elf shook his head, “Aragorn’s fondness for games and mischief notwithstanding, do not be fooled by folk tales,” he warned, “Elves have appetites a plenty for happy diversions, perhaps even more so than any of the races.”

“Oh?” 

“A feast or party may endure for many days.”

Her mouth dropped, “Days?”

“Conception days and wedding celebrations are notoriously long. And raucous.”

“Conception days?” she wondered. Surely it didn’t mean how it sounded?

“You celebrate the day of birth; we celebrate the day of conception.”

Eryndes felt a tingle break out low in her belly. It was just as it sounded. “How could one possibly know the day-?”

“You do know little of my kind,” he declared plainly. 

“A good deal less than I thought.”

Sindar brought them to a stop and took a look around for her to realise the music had stopped.

Their dance was over. 

But she wasn’t even halfway through her apology. Would it be truly greedy to ask for another dance? Surely dancing sequential dances with Sindar would cause gossip amongst folk. Yet after her words with Aragorn, Eryndes was prepared to dance every dance with him and hang the gossip; if only she would be spared seeing him sitting all alone at the Masters’ table once more.

Besides, unknowingly offending or not, facing gossip was a lesser punishment. Had her mother been alive, the penance would’ve been much worse.

Regardless however, Sindar made no move to remove them from the dance ground.

He waited expectantly and when she did not speak he took the lead as music filled the air once more and a new dance started, “Shall we not partake of another?”

Her laugh sounded unexpectedly, and they moved in tangent to change holds for the new dance, “We are already dancing.”

“I was being polite,” he defended with a wry glint to his eyes before stepping beside her, taking her hands down by her waist, “Shall we stop-?”

“Nay, please do not,” she gasped, looking around them. Gossip about her dancing exclusively with Sindar was one thing but she couldn’t imagine what people would say if Sindar abandoned her in the middle of a dance! 

His light chuckle tickled her ear before sweeping her around to loop back the way they’d come. 

“Forgive me, these Dúnedain dances are not half as long as I am accustomed. I do not feel like I have sufficiently danced until a total of three have been completed.”

“Three?” She thought back to when he danced with Baineth; they’d only danced one. “You do know our dances exceedingly well.”

“I have many occasions to learn them.”

“Is it true you spend much time in the Wild?”

“The better part of sixty years,” he said with complete nonchalance.

“Oh,” her eyes widened. He’d spent more time in the Wild than she’d lived.

“Seemingly so much longer,” His lip twitched, “Sixty years amongst rangers can be an eternity.”

She laughed again, barely able to contain herself. “Then I am surprised you are here, amongst even more rangers.”

A moment passed before he answered, “There are some advantages.”

Eryndes was about ask, when the music stopped again.

Sindar once more didn’t move to lead her from the grass and Eryndes kept her hands upon him, a strange brazenness overcoming her in light of their shared humour. “We are upon dance number three,” she stated as a slower tune whined from a fiddle.

“I realise,” he held her a little closer as the dance demanded. Two steps to the side and she turned-

Whacking her arms into Sindar’s chest, “Goodness. I am sorry.”

He joined their hands again for another two steps, and she turned, whacking him again!

She gaped at him. She’d danced this dance all her life.

“Are you in distress?”

She blushed, “I think perhaps my grandmother’s dress was a mistake.”

Or she drank far too much. But then she’d danced the other dances just fine.

Sindar look perplexed, “I see no problem.”

Her blush deepened. “I think it is a-a little tight. My grandmother was slenderer.”

“Perhaps another should be fashioned to account for your larger shape?”

Eryndes swallowed, trying very hard not to feel insulted or resentful. Her grandmother’s dress was the finest she owned, worn by three generations of Carthal Mistresses. Her grandmother’s dress was all she had and darn her ‘larger shape’ for not fitting into it well enough. 

Maidens like Baineth always fit into their dresses. Maidens like Baineth always had new gowns made every year.

Though probably it wouldn’t hurt to start skipping the dessert dishes from now on. Definitely no more cake.

Turning, she whacked him again. “Forgive me!” she cried.

“It is not your dress causing the problem,” Sindar laughed, “But you do not account for our differences in height.”

Eryndes’ gaped at him. Was that true? “But I dance with Aragorn all the time.”

“And you think Aragorn and I are of equal height?” Sindar corrected her position without hesitation or annoyance, “I am taller.” She turned again, and this time she didn’t whack him. “See?”

“Perhaps I could tell if I came up any further than your chin,” she grumbled. Eryndes was not particularly short for a Dúnedan woman, and yet always longed to have been gifted with her mother’s height.

Sindar spoke gently into her thoughts, “Standing with you I feel taller than my father.”

Eager to learn anything about him, she posed the question politely, “He is of a much greater height?”

Sindar answered without reservation, “My father has half a head on me.”

“Oh?” her eyes went wide and searched above his head, “I can scarcely imagine one so tall.”

“He is indeed very pleased with his stature,” he told her seriously, “even his clothes are tailored to give the illusion of a grander height.”

Eryndes laughed and they skipped along in tandem, “Why?”

“To inspire awe and forbearance in all who look upon him?”

Finishing another turn, she frowned until the telling twitch to his lips gave him away. “You are terrible! Making jest at your father!” 

Sindar cocked his head, “Who says I am jesting?”

Doubt wheedled its way into her mind and she stared in astonishment-

Until he gave in with a small snort.

“Ah!” she cried, tapping his shoulder in light reproach, “Aragorn warned me about you!”

A slow smile grew on his lips, “Did he indeed? What precisely was his warning?”

“You are a great tease!”

“That is something you should be warned against?” He stopped and only when he released her did she realise another dance had ended.

“What else did he warn you about?”

Eryndes felt her heart jump directly into her mouth. “N-nothing.”

One dark brow rose.

A new warmth prickled her face and down her arms, “He did warn me against serving you venison and elk or try to convince you to sing.”

“And what did he say would be my response?”

She bit her lip, “Sulking. He said you sulk.”

He surprised her by not blowing up or even laughing. Instead he held his smile, so perfect and vivid in the low light. “Not the most damning accusation he might have made,” he all but whispered.

“Why? What else should he have said?”

“Who in this world could ever claim to be without fault?”

Captured in the drowning softness of his eyes she could not stop her confession spilling forth, “He also warned me against strict convention,” she looked away, “in relation to your rank.”

“I have already said as much,” he reminded her without hesitation. “Twice, if you remember.”

She remembered, remembered quite clearly. The first time she could barely think about without a mix of secret pleasure and embarrassment. “Perhaps the worthiest lessons are those hardest learnt,” she said a little defensively.

His unblinking gaze didn’t waver, “Perhaps.”

The moment was broken by a tug on her dress.

Looking to her side, Eryndes found Briel holding her dress but looking at Sindar.

“Yes, Briel?” Sindar asked.

“Uh, well, would you, can I dance with you?”

“I would be pleased,” Sindar looked at the girl as if she’d suggested they fly to the moon together, “But how when you are as small as you are?”

Eryndes tried to hold back her giggle. Briel was short for her age, only tall enough as Eryndes’ breasts and barely came up so far as Sindar’s ribs. But seeing how the girl was crushed by his words, she clamped down her amusement. “Briel, why don’t you ask your father?”

That suggestion was met with silence.

“Very well,” Sindar said finally, “Come. But do not give leave for any of the other children. I am not a pony.”

Sindar hoisted the small girl into his arms. 

Eryndes backed away with a satisfied grin, watching Briel beaming brighter than any flame in the elf’s arms. Sindar was a fierce warrior, yet helpless against the charms of children.

A light glowed in her chest.

“Eryndes?” A voice came up beside her. It was Bregol. Grinning widely, he took her hand, “I thought the elf was never going to relinquish. Will you do me the honour?”

Eryndes nodded politely and took his shoulder. Immediately he led her into the steps, taking the lead more strongly.

She tried to gently correct him, pushing a little against his taught hold and ease their momentum. It was like dancing with a bull.

“Bregol,” she laughed if only not to grimace, “It is not a battle. If you wish to impress your new wife one day, you must learn to guide, not force.”

Bregol stopped, pouting. If she didn’t know better, she’d think him never to have learnt to dance. But he had. All Carthal Dúnedain were taught as children.

“Here,” she picked up his hands and replaced them in the correct position, “Remember what I taught you? Think of yourself as the mould and I the soft clay. You only need to be gently persuasive and I will follow.” Eryndes smiled reassuringly, “Now, try again.”

Two dances later, Eryndes limped her way to find Gueniel after excusing herself from Bregol with the reason of thirst.

Only to find him coming after her with a cup of wine. Another dance, and this time she used the excuse of a pain in her toe. Which wasn’t a lie considering how many times Bregol stepped on it.

Gueniel groused, “Here he comes again. “

“Again?” she stammered, feeling a presence coming up behind her, “He only just released me.”

“Not Bregol,” Gueniel glowered at the newcomer.

Eryndes sighed in relief before turning smiling gratefully, “Thank goodness.”

A lone dark brow rose, “Pardon?”

“She thought you were Bregol,” Gueniel supplied blandly.

Sindar nodded to the side in amusement, “Aragorn saw your trial and bade me come warn you of his approach.” 

She followed his eyes and sure enough, Bregol was pressing his way through the crowd towards them. “Oh, heavens! Does he have someone he’s trying to make jealous?”

Sindar held out a hand to her in silent offer.

Like a saviour’s hand reached out to pull her from the water, Eryndes grabbed it with relief “Thank Eru for you, Master Elf! I cannot bear another dance with him or be snapped in half.”

He didn’t lead her on though and calmly held out the other hand to Gueniel.

Gueniel stared at his hand like it was a serpent. “What?”

“I believe it is a ‘group’ dance, _midwife_.”

Gueniel sighed and took his hand, “Very well, elf. Try not to step on my toes.”

“I shall endeavour to try,” he scorned with a false sincerity, led them to where the other groups were gathering. 

Eryndes tugged Sindar and Gueniel. “Haste!” she coaxed them eagerly, “there is room with Geledir’s group.”

The music started and Gueniel was the last to join hands. The beat and soar of flutes swept up into the night sky. All around them folk danced in unison, laughing, bowing, ducking, flapping arms, holding hands and charging then changing partners in ordered chaos of the dance, the ‘goslings stampede’.  

Nearing the end, Eryndes hooked arms with Sindar and Gueniel once more, laughing in the joy of such a ludicrous dance, her breath a little laboured and her face warm. 

Everyone came to a stop with the music, clapping, laughing, and declaring the ‘goslings stampede’ the silliest of dances. 

“Nice to see a fellow gander amongst the geese,” Geledir greeted Sindar loudly, taking his hand briefly.

Sindar frowned, “Your daughter tells you have a bad knee. Yet you appear to move just fine.”

Geledir, sounding more than a little inebriated, filled the grass area with his belly laugh, “My knees maybe old, but strong.”

“Why would she say otherwise?” 

“My good elf, kids will be kids. I apologise for her misdeed but please excuse us,” Geledir quickly told him before his wife insistently pulled him out and away from the group towards the tables.

Sindar looked at Eryndes questioning.

“Children do not always tell the truth if it means getting what they want.”

“I thought elves could always tell a lie?” Gueniel asked, waving air across her face with her hand.

“So did I,” the elf wondered aloud.

“Perhaps your perceptions are confused by children?” Eryndes wrapped a hand around his arm, “Gueniel, I claim Sindar for the next dance. I see Amben is without a partner,” she winked conspiringly at her. “He is but over there.”

Sliding her hand from hers, Gueniel turned away, “No thank you. If you can bare my absence, I think I’ll sit this next one out.” Wiping at her brow, Gueniel moved off in the direction of her family’s table.

“You are getting old,” Eryndes giggled after her, but secretly glad her forehead was dry. Sindar didn’t even look like he’d gained a single heartbeat. Though there was little wonder if elves could party and dance for days. 

“You were teasing your friend?”

She stared up at him, “About being old?”

“Nay,” he said, “concerning master Amben? Her retreat was decidedly. Courting amongst the Dúnedain is not something I am well versed-”

Eryndes grimaced and she shuffled on her feet, “Oh. Well, that is not for me to say. Please, I did not mean to make it obvious.”

Sindar eyed her, “I do not think I am incorrect.”

“You are correct,” she confirmed reluctantly, “but please do not speak of it. It was wrong of me to have mentioned it to a public ear.”

He was still not satisfied, the small creases between his brows deepening, “Why does she hide her interest? Is that not counterproductive?”

Eryndes bit her lip, cursing her far too liberal tongue. Gueniel was not going to be happy with her. “Courtships are complicated.”

“Indeed?” Sindar snorted with a bemused smile. “Come.”

Staring at him with loss, she frowned, “Where?”

He gestured to his arm, “I believe you engaged me for the next dance?”

Seeing her hand still wrapped around his arm, she stammered at her gall. When had they’d become so familiar? Over the span of a few dances? “I guess I did. Forgive me, I should have asked first-”

“Strider has called the last dance of the night,” Geledir’s loud booming voice cut in. “Remain joined partners. You are our contestants!”

Eryndes looked around them in surprise, “Oh this is terrible!”

“What is so terrible?”

“The last dance, the king’s gallop. Dancers keep in step with the music which gains speed continually until all but one couple drop out.”

“Yes, I am familiar with it. What is so terrible?”

She apologised up at him, “I am very ill at this.”

“Nonsense, you dance well.”

“Nay, at contests of physical . . . exertions.”

Sindar’s cagey expression broke, “I did notice. You were particularly ill at three-leggered mule.”

She didn’t share in his amusement, “If I had of known it was time for the last dance, you could have picked a better partner. Even Gueniel would have been an improvement.”

He watched her, smirk still solid on his face where his lips barely moved and his eyes did all the smiling, “Yes, far too late now. You will have to suffice.”

“Begin,” Geledir called.

The music started, slow, the beat kept easy by an almost languid tap of drum and tambourine. The flutes joined in and they were off, each couple floating around the grass like leaves on a gentle river. After a twenty count, the pace increased.

Sindar was still smirking.

“Will you still be smirking when I trip and fall, needing to be picked off the ground?”

“You will not trip or fall.”

“My brother said the same three years ago.” The pace increased again.

An almost wicked chuckle came deep from his throat, “I am not your brother.”

Her answering giggle was hardly dignified, “No, indeed.”

His eyes were mesmerizing as always, “Do not think you will fall and you will not.”

The pace increased. Within twenty seconds three couples dropped out.

“I do not think I can.” Her silly giggle didn’t stop.

Raising his chin, he looked down at her but feigned sternness was given away by the twitch in his lips, “Of course you can.”

Her breath was starting to get ragged but her laugh didn’t pause, “I cannot.”

“Focus on me and on your feet. I will keep you balanced. Trust me.”

Eryndes did as she was told, blurring out anything other than him and the movement of her own feet. They danced together to the ever increasing tempo and she only saw him.

“Perhaps you should stop laughing and save your breath.”

She tried but the more she tried the worse it got. “I cannot help it.”

Sindar’s smirk, now long gone, was replaced by a gentle smile. But the beauty of his smile did nothing to stop her laughter, and they continued on, the pace of the music now leaving only three couples.

“One of the men tripped,” Sindar commentated with a small snigger, “It is down to Camaenor, his partner and us.”

“Camaenor?” she looked around-

“Focus on me!”

Almost too late Eryndes turned back to Sindar, Sindar’s sure hold saving her footing with only a slight stumble.

“You do not wish to lose to Camaenor, do you?”

Her breath now gushing, her laugh nothing more than a broad grin, her brow growing hot, she set her chin up high, “Never.”

The elf chuckled, his breath perfectly at ease, “I did not think him the dancing temperament.”

“He is,” she gasped, “a very good dancer-” barely able to breathe, “and singer.”

The music was nothing but hard, rapid beating of drums and squeal of flutes.

“And he plays,” she tried to continue, but now her leg muscles felt like jelly, “the lute. Master Elf-”

“Hold fast, a few moments more.”

“I cannot-”

The music came to a timely stop and Sindar pulled them to a gentle halt, finishing by spinning her around to face the cheering and clapping crowd.

“There you have it,” Sindar reproached teasingly by her ear, “Remarkable what you can do when you try.”

Out of breath, Eryndes bashfully looked at everyone cheering her for what was likely the first time for something other than her singing. Trying desperately to catch her breath, she smiled up at Sindar, “I would have fallen had you not held me upright.”

“Equally so for I could not have won without you,” he led her back towards the master’s table, Eryndes holding tightly to him, her jelly legs no longer trustworthy. Smiling bashfully at her friends, she discretely dabbed at her brow. The elf might have a stammer to outdo his horse, but she did not. 

Aragorn, clapping along with the others, took her hand from Sindar and giving her a kiss on her cheek, “Well done, sister. You surprised us all.”

“I believe the credit goes to my partner,” she smiled over at Sindar.

“Clearly,” Aragorn took her shoulders and steered her away from the table, “You never lasted until the last with me as your partner.”

“Where are we going?”

His deep chuckle tickled against her temple, “The last dance is done. We must adjourn to the manor and allow our people to continue on without us”

Eryndes sighed, “What a pity. This has been a wonderful evening.”

“And tomorrow is another day,” he paused their steps, looking around. “Come, melloneg,” he called to the other side of her, “I believe the women have hidden a secret stash of brandy somewhere.”

Eryndes gasped.

“You didn’t think I’d not noticed?” he nudged her. “You’ve been nipping at it all night. The time has come to confess and give up your source.”

“I may have seen a few flagons . . . somewhere. But where, my lord?” she playfully nudged him back, “I will not give up my secrets. You will have to torture me.”

Eventually when evening was done, Eryndes wearily trudged her way up the manor’s three staircases to her bed.

Half of the dances she’d danced with Sindar, the other half with Aragorn and a few scattered others.

Nestdôl and his cronies of so called elder Masters be damned.

 

 


	16. Power

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *They kissed! Probably not the way everyone expected, but a kiss is still a kiss! How long will it be before they lock lips for real?
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> ** Thanks to all you patient people who continue to support this story. Life has been growing steadily more hectic in recent months. I do not intend to give up though.
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> *** Thanks to all those who reviewed, liked and kudos. You give me the swift kick I need to get back into writing.
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> **** To my writing buddy, Frannel; you have my support everlasting. I hope you find your way to happiness soon. Thank you for your tireless efforts to guide this story forward.
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> ***** A call out to Eschscholzia , whose humorous reviews always gets me going. There’s a small nod in this chapter just for you. I couldn’t resist.
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> ****** Thank you to this story’s number one fan, Paula. All the kingdoms in my imagination for more fans like you.
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>  !Warning! Mentions of violence against woman and rape. This story is aimed for mature readers

 

 

“I dedicate every moment of sweet romance (all romance, not just mine) to the victims of unreciprocated love. We are the lovelorn. May every tender sweet or heart wrenching moment read flood your spirit to new heights and allow you to experience in your dreams that which has been unjustly beyond your grasp . . .” – Voxyn Queen

 

 

 

 DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

 

Aglarebon – Woodland Stallion, Sindar's horse

Aragorn/Strider – Male, Chieftain of the Dúnedain

Baradon/Sculls – Male, Elite Ranger Scout

Bregol/Web - Male, Ranger

Camaenor/Vice - Male, Master of Arms

Cordoves/Swan – Female, Elite Ranger Scout

Eryndes – Female, Mistress of Carthal & Apothecary

Faron/Dusk – Male, Hunting Master & Elite Ranger Scout

Foruyndes – Female, Mistress of Stores

Gueniel – Female, Midwife

Laeron/Wren – Male, Elite Ranger Scout

Lobordir/Joust – Male, Master of Stables & Elite Ranger Scout

Mydedis – Female, Mistress of Housekeeping

Mereniel/Ivy – Female, Elite Ranger Scout (Pregnant)

Nestdôl – Male, Master of Healing, Elder Master of Carthal

Romon – Male, Elder Master of Carthal

Sali – Female, Mistress of Kitchen

Sindar/Master Elf /Legolas – Sinda Male, undisclosed Prince of the Woodland Realm on unofficial secondment

Trîw/Jester – Male, Elite Ranger Scout

Úrion/Bear – Male, Second in Command 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sincerely, waiting was no burden. She would come when finally her duties and her people allowed her. 

Although he did wait for her with anticipation, after the past three weeks he was glad for the peace of the night.

The air was icy. Legolas leant against the stonewall at their predetermined location and gazed appreciatively up at the clear sky filled with brilliant stars.

The morning after the day of games began innocently enough three weeks earlier . . .

 

 

Rousing Laeron from his bunk proved amusing, with the young ranger giving no complaint; just nod of inevitability. The lesson didn’t last long however when Laeron’s stomach emptied violently halfway through the first hour. Feeling generous in his cheery mood, Legolas sent his disciple to the healers for a tonic and then back to his bunk in the dormitory.

However, only after Laeron fully recited the repercussions of overconfidence. Twice for good measure.

Returning through the icy grass fields and cattle herd meandering down the road to the milk house, the great hall was welcoming with the smells of breakfast being tendered over flame. 

Lightening his step the way only elves could, he snuck up on one of the women setting out the tables. “Good morning.”

Eryndes jumped gratifyingly to his amusement, but then smiled lit up his already fine morning. “Oh, good morning, Master Elf. You always get the start from me.”

“I am glad to see you suffer no ill-effects from your hidden brandy stores.” He was truthful in his appraisal; she looked just as always and with no tarnish from drink or late night. 

She laughed and continued picking up arm fulls of small wooden bowls, “If Aragorn sent you to interrogate me, I fear you will be rather disappointed. I will not tell. Women, you must understand, are honour bound to keep our secrets . . . secret.”

Relinquishing the sight of her lips, and the wonderful dreams coaxed forth overnight in memory of her kiss, he curiously eyed the contents of the bowls; he already knew where the women hid their secret stores of brandy, confections and all that. It wasn’t hard to find. Not that he’d told Aragorn the location. “Aragorn did not send me. He and Úrion left early this morning to inspect the new scout posts.” The memories were not so easily forgotten either, enduring and quite vivid; her lips upon his knuckles, hand upon his arm, her smiles and laughter, the intimacy of their embrace as they danced. 

Had Eryndes been elf-kind, it would be not outside custom for him to seek out her consent for courtship. Most ellyns he knew would’ve announced their intention for courtship much earlier - the moment they felt the unmistakable draw of attraction.

As fate would have it, Eryndes was not an elf. This truth alone left him uncharacteristically uncertain. Perhaps he could request her join in for breakfast, then a private word? 

“Aragorn will have no want for brandy today,” He told her at last.

Finishing collecting the bowls, she brushed passed him with happy satisfaction, “Good.”

“Why do the women keep secrets?” he asked quickly, stepping a little to the side and in front of her.

Eryndes stopped, her arms balancing the bowls. She hesitated but then shook her head with a small chuckle, “Oh, it is nothing really. Just a sexes thing. The men have their secrets, as  do we.” 

“What secrets to the men keep?” he asked, coming to face her squarely. He knew a lot of what the men kept from their womenfolk - mostly crass and crude things the women would surely be horrified to learn.

She reshuffled her overflowing burdens with humour in her eyes, “If I knew, they would not be secret.”

“Eryndes,” he implored her, “Will you not put them down?”

“Oh,” she looked down at the bowls, “Sorry. They are just to go with breakfast . . .” 

When she started to put them down, Legolas took half from her, “Come, I will help you.” He gestured for her to lead the way. “What is this? Dried lizard skin, but only the diseased ones?”

“Bean chips,” she answered, beginning to place three bowls per long table, “They are left over from last night.”

Legolas placed the bowls down along another table, “Beans?”

“They are pressed into a slab and allowed to ferment-”

“I knew I smelt mould,” he hissed and held the bowls further away from his nose in disgust.

“It’s not mould. They are sliced thin, fried in tallow then salted,” she defended, standing waiting for him to finish, one hand on her hip in defiance.

Legolas sighed with a despairing shake of his head, “What is it with your kind and mould?” Finishing laying the last bowl, he walked over to her.

“Fermented,” she corrected firmly, “and elves use fermentation.”

“Yes,” he agreed offhandedly. Reaching her, he grasped a small slice of the fried fermented beans from the last bowl in her hands and studied it dubiously. Though appearing scaly, the chip was smooth and crispy, “We ferment fruit for wine. We trade for cheese.” Bringing the slice to his nose he sniffed cautiously only to pull it away with a grimace, “We do not serve rotten grains and legumes as food and drink.”

Eryndes also took a chip from the bowl, “Try it, you may find it to your taste,” and with a show of exaggerated care she put it into her mouth and chewed. Swallowing, she smiled, “See? It is really very good if you are-” she paused.

“If I am?” he prompted.

Her fingers fiddled with the bowl, “Brave enough to try.”

Eyes narrowing from the challenge, he breathed out through his teeth and braced himself. Slowly he put the chip into his mouth, trying hard to ignore the smell.

“And?” Eryndes watched as he chewed, “how do you like it?”

Swallowing wilfully instead of joyfully, he grumbled, “I do believe I am again in great need of your miracle herb.” His head turned towards the kitchen with urgency.

“No!” she cried in disbelief. “Again tease you me!”

Chuckling , hetossed the bowl onto one of the tables, “Alas, no. How I wish I was.” His face screwed in revulsion, “My lord Thranduil would not feed that to his pigs.”

She gaped at him. “I do not believe you!”

“You should know better than to accuse an elf of lying,” he reproached lightly, “Or condemn one for his taste.”

She retorted with a sniff, “Perhaps you have spoilt taste.”

He raised an eyebrow, a little thrill squeezed into his belly, “Do you not mean spoiled?”

“We Dúnedain learn to eat what is available.” Gesturing towards the kitchen, she bade him forth, “Come, tea will appease your spoilt taste.”

Legolas fell into step beside her, “Spoiled not spoilt. Your moulds will ensure I never enjoy food again.”

Her laugh was as much in disgust as in humour, “I am sure the next something sweet will change your mind.”

“Why? Do you have something to offer,” he prodded, slowing to allow her through the door first.

She stopped in the doorway, “You are about as bad as the children; always wanting sweets.”

“What can I say?” a smile tugged at his chest, “I like sweet things.”

Her eyes went brilliant. “Still a child, at what, five thousand years?”

Legolas fought hard to keep his face and tone dry, “Are you asking my age? That is not very polite.”

The tops of her cheeks tinged with pink and quickly walked over to the stove, “I never imagined elves to be sensitive about their age.”

Quietly, he followed her steps with a diverted snigger. She was an easy tease, gullible and unworldly, but that didn’t retract any of the enjoyment. In actuality, it was far more fun this way.

When she went for the kettle, Legolas reached out and took it first. She jumped back, “Master Elf?”

“You need not serve me,” he admonished gently, “I may not cook but am I not apt enough to pour water?”

Her brilliant eyes watched him then smiled, “I am an apothecary. I dispense medicines and even to those suffering from spoilt taste.”

Stepping back and allowing her room, he conceded with an easy smirk, “Then please do before I resort to cutting out my tongue.”

Crumbling and pouring, Eryndes pursed her lips, “I do not advise that.” Finishing, she handed it to him, “Sali has a special recipe for tongue.”

He took a long thankful draught, the herb washing away the mould taint upon his taste, “No doubt after allowing it to sit in the hot sun for a day or two to ferment.”

Stepping away, she took another armful of fermented bean bowls from the bench, “Actually she pickles them with rosemary and peppercorns.”

His mouth slackened in disgust, “I beg pickled tongues will not be served any time soon?”

“Not yet,” she finally grinned then turned and walked towards the hall, leaving him in the kitchen, “they are still pickling.”

He watched the door, then spying more bowls; Legolas quickly took them in his arms and followed. The sooner she was finished her tasks the sooner he could perhaps persuade her to join him at the table-

He stopped coming through the door. Eryndes stood there, still, staring at the mass of Dúnedain heading for the doors.

“Something is wrong,” Legolas heard the telling in the air. Horses galloping on the main road towards the manor, a woman shouting, folk rushing, gathering outside.

Her head moved slightly to the side and glanced back at him, “I thought I heard . . . ” She trailed off moving to follow them outside.

He kept to her side and allowed her to go first.

Outside, a gathering crowd watched two horses circling around each other.

“What is happening here?” Eryndes called to them.

Cordoves pushed her horse in their direction, “Eryndes! I seek sanctuary! I seek sanctuary for Arradis! This time, this time he would’ve killed her!”

“She’s lying,” the man on the other horse yelled, “I have done nothing!”

“Calm down,” Eryndes pleaded, moving between them. Legolas kept sharply to her side. Standing between irate people on horseback was not smart.

Foolish of her in fact. He edged in even closer.

The man on the horse pointed at Cordoves, “This woman’s been after my neck for years! She’s crazy-”

“He’s done it again, Eryndes. This time he must pay!” Cordoves slid down from her horse, leaving a sight to freeze the blood in his elven veins. The second woman on the horse . . . her face a sorrow tale of abuse. Tears fell down her face left red from cruelty; eyes swollen, bloody gashes and cut lip. 

“It was lucky I went to check on Arradis after she failed to come last night,” Cordoves continued, “He surely would've killed her!”

“I did naught but discipline my wife.”

Legolas watched the man finally get down from his horse, and the terrible need to slay him grew in his breast. The Dúnedain had the same idea, for when the man’s feet came upon the ground; the crowd moved in and wrestled him into submission.

“He ought to be strung up!” someone called.

“Cut off his mutinous hands!” cried another.

“Quiet, please,” Eryndes tried to calm them and remained between the man and a blood raged Cordoves, “You have already been punished for ‘disciplining’ your wife, Coston!” She pointed to the woman on the horse, “Is that what you call it? What could she have possibly done to earn-?”

Coston struggled to break free, “She’s been hounding with other men-”

“It’s a lie!” Cordoves snarled. “Even if she did, does being unfaithful give you the right to beat on her? Rape her? Strangle her?”

At Cordoves’ words, the crowd started getting rowdier; one of the men holding Coston threw a punch into his ribs.

“Dúnedain,” Eryndes tried to gain control, and slowly they did begin to settle, “Please, calm down. Please, -”

“Leave this matter, Eryndes,” a new voice called from the crowd. It was one of the elder masters; Romon. “This is for the masters’ council to decide,” Romon waved at the men, “release him. Get his wife back to where she belongs-”

Cordoves stood guard between the master and a terrified Arradis, “You will not-”

“You don’t want to make an enemy of me, ranger,” Romon pointed a finger at Cordoves.

The man was released but the crowd looked murderous, even as they stood back and watched him shove his way towards his wife.

The man, Coston, came to an abrupt halt though. 

Legolas stood blocking Coston, his still and calm exterior masking the savagery brewing in his blood. Speaking low through a rigid jaw, Legolas’ insides shook in hatred. “Come any closer and I will kill you.”

Coston tried to step passed him only to rage when once more Legolas blocked his path, “You have no authority here, elf!”

“Authority or not, you will still be dead,” he threatened darkly, only loud enough for Coston to hear, “(and I will spit on the mess not even fit for the pigs and rats).”

Coston paled but then gestured behind Legolas, “That is my wife. I demand her returned to me.”

“Retrace your steps,” he ordered, seething, “or die.”

Coston hesitated but then slowly backed away . . . only to come face to face with the angry crowd.

“Eryndes!” Cordoves barked, “Are you going to let this happen? Where is justice?”

Legolas tore his ire from the man to Eryndes. She reluctantly answered the crowd, “Aragorn will return by the end of the day, he will decide what is to be done-”

“Aragorn will not decide. He chooses for these matters be left to the masters,” Romon cut in, then shouted at Eryndes, “As should you.”

“Sindar?” Mereniel came rushing to his side, “Can you not intervene?”

“Authority is owned by the Masters’ alone. Lord Sindar’s granted command starts and ends with the rangers,” Romon declared loudly, “This matter is domestic, not military.”

“He is right,” he murmured to Mereniel. This was not his realm to dispense punishment as he saw fit. He could only command the rangers in Aragorn and Úrion’s absence. “Regardless,” he told her gravely, “guard the wife.”

Instantly, Mereniel snapped to a defensive stance beside him, her small protruding belly a reminder of her precarious condition. But given the situation, Mereniel was still more than able to defend herself than the frail woman on Cordoves’ horse.

“Eryndes!” Cordoves shouted, “are you just going to stand there?”

Eryndes hesitated and that was enough to make Cordoves shriek in fury and charge the man, pulling a blade from her belt. “Then be his death at my hand!”  

“Cordoves!” 

Cordoves stopped at once, stunned, glancing back over her shoulder at Eryndes.

They all looked at her, eyes wide, mouths open. Truly, even Legolas was astounded. He never knew Eryndes could shout so loud.

Eryndes’ chest rose and fell with her hard breathing. 

Her eyes sought him. 

Legolas gave a nod of encouragement. What else could he do? These were her people. He already intervened more than was his right.

She bit her lip then looked? mournfully back to the woman on the horse. Pulling her chin up, she called to the crowd. “Coston, remain standing where you are. You will answer to the allegations levelled at you.”

Camaenor, having pushed his way through the Dúnedain, landed a rough hold on Coston’s shoulder, “He’s not going anywhere.”

“Arradis,” Eryndes called to the woman who was still on Cordoves’ horse, battered, bloodied and completely petrified. 

“Arradis, who did this to you?” Eryndes asked gently.

The wife's eyes looked at her husband but didn’t answer.

“It was him!” Cordoves answered, “When I arrived he had thrown her to the floor, his hands about her throat, forcing himself upon her-”

“A man cannot rape his own wife!” Coston snarled before Camaenor threw an easy elbow into his side, silencing him with an ‘oof’.

“Eryndes, I swear it,” Cordoves continued empathetically, “I knocked him off her, subdued him enough for escape and rode here for safety.”

Eryndes was still looking at the wife. “Help her down.” She walked over and waited for the men to gingerly set the woman to her feet. Gently she took her hand, “Will you tell me what happened? Who did this to you?”

The wife hesitated.

“Tell her the truth!” someone from the crowd called. Many nodded. “Speak!”

“Speak! Speak!” the rest of the crowd encouraged.

The wife sobbed then whispered, “It was as Cordoves said. He said he’d kill me this time.”

Eryndes turned the woman's hand, peeling back the sleeve to reveal old bruises going up her arm. Around them the crowd gasped and roared in anger. “How long has this been happening?” Eryndes’ voice broke.

The wife sobbed louder in answer.

Eryndes closed her eyes, her body shaking. She opened her eyes and said softly, “I am so sorry we failed you. You have my oath he will never touch you again.”

The woman broke down into hysterics. Mereniel moved from Legolas’ side and pulled Arradis into her arms.

“Eryndes?” Legolas gently got her attention then gestured to the manor.

Eryndes nodded, “Mereniel, please take her upstairs. Third floor. Stay with her. I will tend her myself.”

“Don't you dare!” Coston bellowed, “That is my wife, I have a right to her!”

Eryndes breathed in hard, fury hardening her eyes. She faced the man, “Your rights ended the moment you first struck her! You only got away with it through our neglect. It will not happen again. When Strider returns-”

“We cannot wait for Aragorn!” someone yelled.

“Justice waits for no man!” yelled another.

“Summary punishment is demanded!” 

“Stone him!”

“String him up!”

“You will do nothing of the sort!” Romon came striding into the circle, “Only the masters may judge and punish in communal matters! You have the wife. He can no longer harm her. Let the man go until the council convenes to decide his fate!”

“He must be punished immediately!” Cordoves shouted and glared at Camaenor, “It is law!”

Camaenor returned the elite woman ranger’s glare with one of indifference, “It is not my decision.”

More and more the crowd edged in on the man-

“Wait!” Eryndes looked at them as they all looked at her, then with a reluctant nod of concession, she pointed, “Seize him.”

They all looked at her in shock until Cordoves pointed at the man, “She said seize him!”

The crowd grabbed the man by the arms, throwing him hard down on his knees.

Romon pushed through the crowd to Eryndes, “You’re overstepping yourself! You think Nestdôl will-”

“Nestdôl is not here!” Cordoves stalked nearer to Coston, “And as the present next of kin to my sister-in-law, I demand justice! And I demand it now! Or by Eru the next judgement passed will be for his murder.”

Legolas kept his eye on Eryndes. She glanced above her to the sky, and then took a long shaky breath, “Retrieve the charter. Master of Arms, the punishment shall fit the crime.”

Camaenor levelled a disbelieving scoff at her, “You're going to have me beat and rape him? while I strangle him?”

Legolas hissed quietly. Camaenor and Eryndes might not get along, but the blacksmith was being ridiculous.

Eryndes hesitated, every tremble to her posture and lips speaking uncertainty. Her eyes sought Legolas again. He held her gaze but alas could say nothing. In the lands of his father, Coston would have already been put to death.

Deciding finally, Eryndes announced sternly, “Fetch a whip.”

Camaenor was clearly surprised but with a firm nod he turned his attention to the rangers still holding the man, “String him up against the wall.”

“It is not your decision!” Coston yelled at them. “Romon said it is for the masters to decide!”

But the rangers didn’t listen to him.

“I get you for this, strumpet,” Coston spat at Eryndes, then spat at Cordoves before being hauled away, “You and that damned hussy’s sister. I'll get all of you. You'll see. Mark my words.”

By the time the man was strung up facing the wall, his tunic torn from his back, the ranger came running with an ancient book held tightly against his breast. He quickly handed it to Eryndes.

With shaking hands she flicked through the pages, absentmindedly running her hand over her hair and tugging at her dress. When she spoke her voice was loud but with a tremble in her throat, “In the absence of the rightful liege or lord, in matters of domestic law, the master or mistress of a province shall act accordingly to ensure justice is upheld by all and for the protection of all.” She flicked hurriedly to another page, “No persons or person shall do harm to another without just cause, the justness being self-preservation or defence of another.” Again she moved to a new page, “Under circumstance or circumstances where a husband or wife abuses the traditions and values of Dúnedain, be that harm, neglect, adultery or honour, the victim may absolve the marriage immediately without fear or loss of dignity.”

Taking another breath, Eryndes continued to the very back page, “Actions not specified here within shall be punished to the degree of severity of the crime, determined at the discretion by the liege or nobility, or master and or mistress of the land.

She paused, “Justice shall wait for no man.” Eryndes lowered the book, closing it and placing her hand on top, “Master of Arms, you are charged to deliver the punishment. Do you sanction?”

Camaenor bowed his head formally, “I do sanction, Mistress. I am ready to fulfil my duty.” 

Eryndes looked to the man, “Coston, your crimes against your wife are most heinous. In the lands to the south, a wife has no rights. But we are the people of Númenor. You swore Arradis your love and protection, your honour and faith; to be ever a worthy husband. You have failed. You have dishonoured our noble blood. A third time found guilty,” her face grew paler, “we will have no choice but to execute you.” 

She waited but Coston remained silent against the wall, tightly strung up by his wrists.

Finally, Eryndes stiffly nodded to Camaenor, “Three dozen lashes, please.”

Camaenor took the whip and experimentally gave it a quick snap-

Legolas saw Bregol come up behind Eryndes and slipped in beside her. “Come,” he took her arm, “You don't need to see this.”

“Unfortunately I do,” she took her arm from Bregol’s hold, and replaced her hand upon the book, “The one who passes sentence must pay witness.”

Legolas didn’t watch Camaenor delve out Coston’s punishment. He kept his eyes solely on her, how she flinched with every cry of pain to every lash, her face whiter than fresh snow, her gaze firmly fixed upon the man.

Power was a terrible thing.

When it was over, she took her hand from the book and handed it to the Bregol, “Please, see this is replaced as it was.” Bregol reluctantly took it and left. She called out to the crowd, “Take him to the healing wing-”

“Shouldn’t we leave him in the dirt?” someone shouted.

“Let him rot!” Cordoves stalked towards Coston, her hands and body itching for more blood-

“Cordoves,” Legolas growled quietly.

Even with the noise and shouts, her boots came to an abrupt halt and she turned to him obediently.

“Go attend to your sister-in-law. You have your justice.”

The fire in her eyes didn’t dim, but she bowed to him and left the gathering in haste for the manor.

“That is not our way,” Eryndes was explaining to her people, “Coston has paid for his dishonour and Arradis has her justice and freedom too, if she so wishes it. See he is treated to proper medical care.” She quickly began to retreat-

“You had no right!” Romon went after her. “Nestdôl and the masters council-”

With an agile stride Legolas stopped in front of him, “You said your piece, master Romon. I strongly recommend you find something else to occupy your time.”

Romon loathingly stared up at him, “You're meddling in matters which don’t concern you.”

“No indeed,” he leant down to the old man’s face, “I find it very concerning.”

“You're a long way from your lordly lands. It would be wise to not interfere or find your welcome timely worn.”

“Romon,” Faron came through the crowd to take the master's shoulder, “Come away. The matter is dealt. Come.”

Romon shrugged off Faron’s hand with a glare at the hunting master before striding away.

Faron held for a moment before uttering quietly, “The masters will be irate. Nestdôl will be . . .” he trailed off, his eyebrows gathering. “He will consider this to be a slur to his authority. She’d better be prepared for the consequences. And Strider too, and yourself.”

Legolas’ jaw went rigid, “Is that a threat?”

Faron stiffened, “Nay, a caution.” Not waiting for a reply, he dispersed back into the crowd.

For a moment Legolas watched Faron go, then swept his gaze to the manor. There were a lot of questions. After all that happened last night, he planned to confront Faron after breakfast . . . 

Yet with Faron’s warning still in his ears, Legolas decided instead to seek answers from the one person who was guaranteed to talk, who knew the gossip of the people, and already shared Legolas’ confidences.

It was far better to be informed before confrontation, than after.

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

“Tell me about Nestdôl.”

Foruyndes opened her mouth with a loud cackle, “Do you seek the simple facts or would you rather have the whole sordid history?”

Legolas slid down into the wing chair beside hers in front of the fire, “Why not the simple facts first?”

She chortled, twisting wool awkwardly around her fingers, “He’s a nasty old goat.”

Legolas blinked when she didn’t continue. Patiently, he held out his hands for her, “Perhaps now I see I should have chosen the longer version.”

Sliding the wool over to his hands, she wound and unknotted the messy ball. Her thin hunched shoulders raised then fell in a huff, “His line traces back to the days of Fornost. They were squires and healers to kings and nobles. Yet theirs was always lusting for power. Even today. Being the high master is not enough. Those who seek power will always seek more.”

Legolas snorted, “Power is as any addiction to those too weak to resist.” He frowned, “Do not the Carthals rule over their own lands?”

“Aye, the Carthals have always reigned over the people, but with no title, no noble blood, there are those who are not . . . content. Why should Carthals rule over them when they themselves are no different?”

Foruyndes sighed wearily but continued, “During the years of Thalawest, rule of Carthal lands was sure. Thalawest was a gentle man but never suffered questions to his rule. Nestdôl, on the other hand spent most of his life trying to gain influence and power. His tool of choice back then was none other than his own daughter.” Foruyndes stopped to pick at a particularly bad knot, “Oh, he had the poor thing trailing after Thalawest something fierce. A bear after honey. He might’ve succeeded too, that is until Fuieryn rode into Carthal.” 

Foruyndes laughed abruptly, her fingers kept a steady rhythm wrapping the twisted wool around his hands, “She was something! Tall, lovely, the manners and grace of a noble woman. Not five minutes after arriving and all the men were in love with her. But Fuieryn, no, she would have none of it. She came north with a purpose.”

His dark brow rose, “She came for Thalawest?”

She nodded empathically, “Though daughter to a common ranger, she was raised as a ward in the home of a southern lord, woven and educated as any noble-women fit for a king. Gossip had it she originally favoured Arathorn and indeed the two of them were friends. But Arathorn’s heart was already won by another, you see and so he pressed Fuieryn to travel north; there was a amiable and honourable man in need of a good wife, and although title-less, this man held command over the land and the love of his people.

“So Fuieryn came north and not three months later they wed. Oh!” she waved her hand about, “Thalawest was infatuated, lovesick. Yet Fuieryn made no false claim; she wanted a husband of means, authority and honour, and that was good enough for Thalawest. He spent each day proving himself a worthy husband and eventually Fuieryn did come to love her husband.

“She wasn’t a slacker either though, bringing seeds from the south to plant fruit trees, vegetable gardens, herbs and grains. Taught the arts of healing, she did, making potions and oils. She planted gardens, lush grasses from secret seeds. She and Thalawest brought the families back to Carthal, built bathhouses, dorm rooms for orphans and widows. Even by the end of their first year of marriage, she also brought forth a strong male heir. Many thought she would continue to bless the union with scores of children, but alas decades passed without falling in with another child. But she was a dutiful and attentive wife, a stern but fair mistress and happy in her marriage.

“The Dúnedain were grateful to her and thus a cottage was built for her as a token of gratitude, to be held in ownership of the female line of Carthal.”

Legolas recalled the day he rode into Carthal. “Eryndes’ cottage on the main road?” 

“Yes, that's the one. It took thirty years before the great hall heard the cries of another Carthal infant.” Foruyndes paused, a sternness taking her brow, “A wee little girl. The babe not even properly cleaned from birthing and Fuieryn lowered her wings of protection. Her daughter was never allowed to be without her mother, kept within two steps behind her at all times. The daughter of Thalawest and Fuieryn was to be a lady, not a ranger. Thalawest and her brother, even Aragorn managed to free her from time to time, taking her out riding and even many times to the southern trade routes.  For the most part though, she remained under Fuieryn’s ever watchful guard.”

Her lips trembled, “Then alas, Thalawest and Thalion died and in the same battle no less. The masters’ took charge to, excuse me, ‘ease’ Fuieryn’s burden.”

“Nestdôl effectively held power ever since?”

Foruyndes finished looping the wool over his hands and tied it off. He could see the hesitation behind her eyes, “Foruyndes?”

“Fuieryn had no real claim to command the Dúnedain. She did what she could to protect her daughter from the likes of Nestdôl and his schemes, but if it hadn’t been for Aragorn, Eryndes would have been married off upon her fifteenth birthday.”

The thought was sickening, and perhaps coming to understand a little better the conversation he’d had with her upon their first encounter, “The honour-kinship?”

She nodded, licking her fingers and tying the wool around her needle. “Allowed him to protect her and decreed her marriage to be of her own choosing, at a time of her own choosing.”

Legolas considered. “I see now the reason for the hatred between Aragorn and Nestdôl.”

Foruyndes clucked her tongue, “They never did get along. Strider was ever a fly in the ointment of Nestdôl’s plans.” She began knitting with a practiced ease seemingly beyond her frailty. “Even now, Nestdôl plans and schemes.”

“Do you know of his current scheme?”

“Do you know?” Foruyndes went on like she’d not heard him, “After Thalawest was wed, Nestdôl’s  daughter was considered useless to her father? The poor thing. Left to the mundane labours in the manor, invisible to her father. Eventually she fell in love with a ranger and spent years begging her father to be allowed to marry. Many say Nestdôl was resentful of her for not delivering him the Carthal family, that nasty old goat. He only allowed them to marry after decades of waiting. Decades! Then of course she bore a child, who unfortunately killed her upon coming into the world. The husband went mad with grief and hung himself in their barn. Nestdôl took in the boy, raised and twisted him to be another tool in his lust for power.”

Legolas stared at her and wondered at the callous way she described such terrible happenings, “And who is his grandson?”

Foruyndes sniggered, “You don’t know? His grandson is Bregol.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Are you certain?”

Legolas snorted, “Faron called me by name, so indeed, I am fairly certain.” Having sought out Aragorn the moment he pulled his horse up to the manor, they returned to the private chamber in the war room.

With the door closed.

Aragorn was all agog. “How did he know?”

“He refused to say; only our meeting occurred in the distant past.”

Aragorn rubbed his hand over his beard, “He will not refuse to tell me.”

“Forget him,” he said firmly. He continued with haste when Aragorn looked as if to argue, “I shall deal with him myself. We have more pressing matters to discuss.”

“Yes,” Aragorn agreed, still caught up in his thoughts. “Faron’s probably just stirring trouble. Still it wouldn’t hurt to have a word with him. We don’t want folk coming to know your true name by gossip. That we do not need. You’re right though, our immediate concern should lie with the threat from Carn Dûm. Yet, I am wondering if they’re connected; the army massing in the fortress and the trouble we had with the last caravan and the marauders. Then there was the spell caster... Is he just out for sport or does he play a part in this?”

Legolas studied him, “When you speak this way, I feel I am still sitting in the kitchen side room with Foruyndes.”

Aragorn frowned then his eyes came back into focus with a wry smirk, “At least I’m not knitting you a scarf for winter.”

Legolas sat back with annoyance, “I fail to see the humour. Her’s is a kind gesture.”

Aragorn sniggered, “You did explain elves don’t suffer from the cold?”

“No one has ever made me a scarf before,” he accounted with a low murmur. He crossed his arms over his chest, “What of your idea to send south for more rangers?”

“I have thought on it,” he admitted, “and that time may be upon us. But first, I may take a few rangers further south and send word to Mithrandir. Perhaps he may know who this spell caster is.”

Legolas considered this carefully, “This spell caster has you on the top branch.”

“I do not like the idea of having a sorcerer so close to my people.”

“We know not if it is the same one as I saw in Angmar-“

“He may have followed you back, leading him directly to Carthal.”

For many seconds, he held Aragorn’s gaze, “No one followed me and might I remind you; Carthal has stood here longer than I.”

Aragorn let out a long breath, “Forgive me. I know you of all people would’ve never allowed yourself to be followed. I shouldn’t have suggested it.”

“Thousands of orcs currently sit in Carn Dûm and you are more concerned about couple magic wavers? Playing with foliage to torment orcs and turning air to mist to frighten rangers?” He continued before Aragorn could answer. “I will go find this magician and I will question him.”

Aragorn was shaking his head even before he finished, “Melloneg, I need you to stay here. I mean I ask you to remain here. Keep a sharp eye to the north until my return.”

Legolas hesitated, for sure he was not too keen to leave Carthal again so soon, but if this spell-caster was truly worth Aragorn’s concern . . . “Should you not be the one to remain?”

The lines on Aragorn’s forehead grew, “Why do you think so?”

Legolas didn’t have the chance to explain his misgivings; outside the small room came raised voices.  A moment later Úrion tapped on the door.

“Come,” Aragorn said quickly and Úrion poked his head in. “What is the fuss?”

“Your pardon, Strider, but Nestdôl’s here and demands you attend him.”

Aragorn nodded, “No doubt he plans to run me through for Eryndes’ actions this morning. Very well,” he got up, “Let us deal with this now.”

Legolas followed him and Úrion out of the small office, a line of concern etched between his brows.

“Can this not wait?” Aragorn calmly demanded Nestdôl, walking over to the nearest table to sit, “Our discussions at present are of the utmost importance.”

“I assure you my words are just as important,” Nestdôl waved towards Úrion, and the other rangers in the war room, and then with emphasis at Legolas, “I seek your private ear, Aragorn.”

No one moved but Nestdôl waited, his eyes burning into Aragorn’s. 

With a reluctant nod, Aragorn bid they depart.

Legolas didn’t move.

“Aragorn?” Nestdôl waved at Legolas again.

Sitting further back on the edge of the table, Aragorn crossed his arms over his chest, “You have two minutes, old man.”

“I seek your private ear.”

“And you have it.” Aragorn’s eyes flicked to Legolas, “Whatever this urgent matter, you may trust in Sindar’s discretion.”

“Are all Carthal and Dúnedain matters to be known by Mirkwood? Is our noble heir now Thranduil’s puppet?”

“Speak carefully,” Legolas warned dangerously.

“You have no business in this matter! Carthal is Dúnedain, not Woodland! If you think I will allow some elf-king take control-”

“Of a farmhouse and a few farms?” Legolas laughed cruelly, “Why should my lord bother?”

Nestdôl drew himself up, “Aragorn! I demand to speak to you alone!”

“Demand away,” Aragorn calmly answered, “But to no satisfaction. You may choose to speak, or you may choose to leave; Sindar stays or leaves as he wishes. You or I do not command him.”

Nestdôl eyed them both. “It is a concern to the masters how much this elf is influencing you. If you do not yield-.”

“The heir of men does not yield to you!”

“(Melloneg, ease your temper),” Aragorn soothed with a touch to his arm. “Speak, Nestdôl. Your two minutes wanes. I have a war to fight.”

Nestdôl bristled, “I come to call for censure on behalf of the masters. The happenings of this morning and last night cannot be allowed to reoccur.”

“I beg your pardon?” Aragorn responded smoothly.

Nestdôl raised his chin, “Can you truly condone her behaviour?”

Legolas felt his ire begin to brood, “What is there to condemn?” 

“This is no concern of yours,” Nestdôl snapped without looking at him.

“Master healer,” Aragorn said firmly, “you will use respect when addressing Sindar.”

Nestdôl’s wrinkled face screwed further, “The elf is half the reason I am here! Or do you approve of the flirtations between the two?”

A slow grin happily grew upon Legolas lips. He was as guilty as Nestdôl accused. He wasn't ashamed.

Aragorn however remained very calm, “The elf is a lord and is to be honoured as one.”

Nestdôl’s eyes narrowed and pushed his old body up to full height, “Aragorn, the time has come. You must abdicate.”

Legolas’ eyes widened in outrage.

“Abdicate?” To his surprise Aragorn chuckled, “Abdication? Please, do explain.”

“I think we both know the reasons. This morning’s sorry state of affairs makes it irrefutable; a clear leadership must be established.”

“This morning?” Aragorn nodded, taking a moment, “You refer perhaps to Eryndes’ punishment of the wife-beater, Coston?”

“You know that I am. She had no right to circumvent the masters’-”

“She has every right,” Aragorn cut in smoothly. “And Coston got off lightly.”

Nestdôl stopped, his eyes wide.

“Had I presided he would’ve been publicly castrated.” Aragorn nodded at Legolas, “And very fortunate Sindar didn’t disembowel him on sight. Elves take rape and attempted murder even more seriously than I.”

Legolas gave Nestdôl an evil glare.

Swallowing, Nestdôl redirected his attention back to Aragorn, “This only serves to prove my point. There must be a clear rule, otherwise any man,” he scoffed, “or foolish girl will take it upon themselves to make rash judgements and soon all of Carthal would be in anarchy.”

“A foolish girl?” Again Aragorn was very smooth, “Eryndes who is the only one here with the blood of Carthal?”

“And whose fault is that?” Nestdôl pointed at Aragorn, “Because of you we have no master and no heir. How long before she is too old for breeding?”

_Breeding?_  Legolas’ jaw dropped in astonishment. 

Aragorn shook his head, “You speak of her as if she is a broodmare.”

Nestdôl sniggered, “What other purpose would she have?”

Fury lashed through Legolas and he dived to his feet.

Aragorn quickly stepped in front of him, but remained facing Nestdôl, “I caution you, old man. Of the three in this room, you’re the least able to defend his tongue.” The smooth calmness of his manner and tone had diminished. The stiffness in his stance spoke of the seriousness of his warning.

Unlike Legolas, it took a lot to shake Aragorn’s temper. Nestdôl was very close to shattering it.

“You are the Chieftain, yet your interests lie exclusively with the south. You abandoned to your rule to skylark away your years with elves.” Nestdôl showed his stumpy teeth, “If you will not abdicate then Carthal needs a master by marriage.”

Aragorn let a harsh hiss through his teeth, “That is up to Eryndes.”

“The silly girl has no intention of marrying!” Nestdôl shrilled, “You have spared her long enough. The time has come; pass the rule completely to the masters council or command her to wed.”

Aragorn took a long stride in Nestdôl’s direction, “You do not dictate to me, nor to her.”

“Then you choose an end to Númenor! The Dúnedain will not survive civil war.”

“War is coming and yet you care more for gaining power,” Aragorn accused, “Have you no honour?”

“By your slack leash she will die childless and Carthal destroyed by orcs, marauders or by internal fighting?” Nestdôl pointed down to the ground floor, “Reel her in before she destroys us all!”

“Tell us then, who should she wed?” Aragorn soured, “Your grandson? 

Nestdôl didn’t even blink. “Bregol has the good of the Dúnedain in mind.”

“I believe my sister has given Bregol no encouragement-”

“Oh but she has. She’s led him on, teased him and played the games of any tavern harl-”

Aragorn was in his face in an instant, “You do not want to finish that statement. Trust me, you do not.”

Legolas saw Nestdôl’s wrinkles deepen as his eyes widened. “You cannot threaten me. The people won’t stand for it.”

Aragorn took hold of the man’s shirt front, “Leave this room now. Go run your council. While I still allow it.”

Nestdôl pulled himself back away. He held himself up proudly. “Carthal does not look to you. If it were not for the masters, the manor, the lands, all of it would have been destroyed long ago.”

“Leave.”

The quiet order from Aragorn resounded through the room more than any shout. Nestdôl tugged his clothes back into position and left with a huff.

But no less quickly. 

Aragorn could be very menacing when he chose to be.

In this case however, it was not enough. “Perhaps you should do more than argue,” Legolas said quietly. “From what I have heard, he holds sway with many of the people.”

“No doubt through intimidation and racketeering.” Aragorn made an indignant sound in his throat, “Nestdôl’s an old man, looking for the last bit of glory before the sun sets. He wouldn’t dare start something serious. He’s too much of a coward.” 

The fell feeling he’d had since Faron’s warning fouled his belly. “From what I have heard he will not simply heed your warning.”

Aragorn answer was polite, “Nestdôl is not worth your concern, my friend. He has his uses, mainly allowing me to focus entirely on Angmar and our lands to the south. Come, I want to organise to send word to Gell and prepare to leave.”

“Aragorn,” Legolas’ face tightened. “You cannot leave a man like Nestdôl in charge of Carthal. You are their rightful king and their protection is your responsibility.”

“That is what I am doing,” Aragorn held open the door for the others, “by fighting this war.”

Legolas watched the others come back into the war room, his fingers curling, “It is a mistake.”

Aragorn glanced at him briefly. “Úrion? I want you and Sindar to take charge of the rangers for a few days. No more than three weeks. I wish to send word south and leave within the hour. With the weather still fair, I can be thirty miles hence before nightfall. While I’m gone, have the last caravan prepared. Once I return, I will take it south myself and seek out Gell and his rangers.”

Aragorn did leave within the hour.

Half an hour after that, the masters council convened.

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

“I think we are to fail,” Eryndes cried.

“No we won’t! Just keep going!”

Giggling, the four of them trudged on. They were coming back from the herb gardens the children were learning how to tend. The rest of the children ran off the moment she announced they chores were done enough for the day. Some of the others trailed about, following her back to the manor.

“Come on, Eryndes, we're almost there!”

Eryndes put one leg in front of the other. She was their mule, one girl in each arm, while the youngest girl hung from her shoulders. 

“Eryndes?” Briel and her friend Alacthel came up tentatively, “May we be excused? We'd like to go see Sindar.”

Bemused, she tried to reposition the arms clinging around her throat without the use of her hands, “Would Sindar appreciate your disturbing him? Undoubtedly he has more important duties. Perhaps it would be best to wait until supper.”

The two girls started to pout-

She almost chocked when the arms around her neck tightened, “Very well,” she struggled to balance the girl upon her shoulders again, “you may go look for him. But if he is busy, or doesn’t want you hanging around you must return immediately.”

Their faces lit up and holding each other's hand, the two of them took off with a girlish squeal; few of the others joining them. Eryndes smiled secretly. If Sindar was still feeling awkward around kids, he’d soon be cured; he was their new topic of curiosity.

“No more than half an hour!” she called after them, “Then return to your lessons.”

“Come on, Eryndes!” one of the girls jiggled against her hip. “We're almost there!”

Finally getting to the stoned path, she breathed a deep sigh and cheered along with the girls.

“We knew you could do it! You're a good mule!”

She laughed and gently took the girl from her neck and placed her beside the others. “There you go. Now take her upstairs with you. Mydedis has wheels set up for your class.”

“Why don't the boys have to learn how to work wool-wheels?”

“None of that,” she patted them down, brushing and pulling their clothes back into position, “Goodness, how did you get so dirty? Off you go. Just hide the mud on your clothes or Mydedis will have me in the washroom as penitence!”

They giggled then went off, the two elder girls towing the younger between them.

“Eryndes!”

Eryndes searched for the one who called. “Amdiel.”

The young woman gave her a one armed hug, “Look! Look at Brui! See how grown he is!”

Eryndes’ heart soared, “Hello there, Brui,” taking the small bundle from Amdiel with practiced hands and cuddled him close, “Oh, he is just beautiful.” 

“Oh, isn’t he?” Amdiel cooed proudly. “And the best baby.”

“Is he now?” she cooed just as adoringly, softly touching the boy’s tender cheek.

“He sleeps, and eats as I’m told he should.”

Eryndes grinned down at the little blue eyes barely opening, “Have you been spoiling your mother?” She tested him in her arms, “He is gaining good weight. He must be a good eater.”

Amdiel chortled, “He has his father’s appetite; always hanging on my breast.” Still grinning, she leaned in closer, “Actually, would you mind taking a look at him. I know you’re busy-”

“Not at all,” Eryndes gestured to a table to the side. “I am never too busy to spend time with babies, you know that.”

“I think it’s just a rash from his nappy cloth but I wanted to be certain.”

Almost reaching the table, Eryndes smiled down at the little boy yawning. He was such a beautiful boy. “Of course, no trouble at all-”

“Amdiel!”

Both Eryndes and Amdiel jumped and turned around in surprise. Nestdôl came striding as quickly as his old bones allowed. His hand flew violently, “Take that child away!”

They stood staring and Eryndes wasn’t even sure he was yelling at them. He seemed enraged.

“Nestdôl?”

“I said take that child away!”

“Whatever for?” Eryndes demanded, instinctively drawing the baby boy against her.

“No childless woman shall hold the life of another's baby!” he came in and reached around her for the boy.

Eryndes darted back, “What? That is just a foolish superstition!”

“Is it?” Nestdôl fumed, “It is written in the charter. You must remember, since you're so fond of reciting it. Our forebears knew not to risk an infant’s life upon the jealousy of a childless woman!” 

Every muscle in her body tensed. “That law was abandoned two thousand years ago!”

“It is abandoned no longer. We the masters have deemed it vital. You will abide by the charter. You and every other childless will teach or tend to no child!”

“Eryndes,” Amdiel whispered, creeping close to her under Nestdôl’s ire.

The little boy started crying in earnest, “It is fine. Here, take him. Go on.” She faced Nestdôl as she’d been forced to far too many times before, “This is absurd! That law was drawn into the charter because once long ago half the children died of plague.”

“The charter is law! The masters are law!” Nestdôl shoved a crooked finger in her face, “If you want to be around babies so much perhaps you should make one before you’re as barren as your heart!”

She choked against the swell in her throat. “Nestdôl,” she implored, “please, please don't do this-”

“You were warned but you chose to remain stubborn. Well, now you can rejoice, you have your way. We won’t call for your marriage any longer. But understand, until you wed and bare a child, you will wither, ever at distance from the children.”

The sights of Nestdôl’s face blurred, “Nestdôl, please don’t-“

“Do you hear me? Either marry or stay away from the children!” He grinned victoriously and walked away.

“Aragorn won’t let you get away with this!” she wailed after him.

“Won’t he?” Nestdôl kept walking, “You and I both know where Aragorn’s concerns lie and it is not here.”

“Nestdôl? Nestdôl! You cannot be so cruel!” she cried going after him, tears burning down her cheeks. “Nestdôl! Nestdôl!”

 

* * *

* * *

 

“Do you not think I have told enough tales for one day?”

The children surrounding him in the barn snickered and giggled, all with a collective, ‘nay’. They’d cornered him in there. He’d been checking on Aglarebon, hoping visiting his young friend would ease the misgiving in his heart after Aragorn left for the south.

Then the children pounced.

Within minutes he’d been coaxed into stories and fairytales of far off places while just over a dozen children sat and lay about in the hay for what must have been over an hour.

Legolas gave them a stern eye, “Whether you think so or not, I have students waiting for me.” He rose from the wooden chaff bin, and settled the youngest boy who’d climbed up to sit beside him during the first tale back to his feet. He brushed the straw from the boy’s hair and shirt-back, “Alas, I have my duty.”

“But Sindar-“

“No ‘buts’, Briel,” he told her firm but not unkind. Though children were still not something he was accustomed, they were beginning to grow on him. Their blunt and jejune manners were refreshing, and undoubtedly charming.

Briel, clearly eldest child present, gave in but not without sticking out her lower lip, “I suppose if they need you, then we must let you.”

“How exceedingly generous of you,” Legolas groused, leading them out the barn, “Now, off to your afternoon lessons.”

“But it’s getting close to suppertime,” one of the younger girls whined.

“Then you best hurry or go hungry.”

Their widened eyes and gasps almost made him laugh, and did so once they were off, flying across the grass towards the manor as fast as their little legs could go. It was a harmless ruse Úrion taught him. The father of five, and soon to be six, knew well how to sway children. 

His light mood didn’t last.

Even before Legolas arrived at the archery field, he knew something was amiss. The grounds seemed . . . empty. 

Legolas at first thought the fell feeling in his stomach might have been from the bean chip he’d been dared to eat that morning. But when only less than a third of the students showed, most notably Laeron and Baradon, Legolas dismissed the class and went to investigate.

Stepping through the side door into the great hall, he was struck again by the silence. Surely the women would be in the kitchen, waking the dead with their elf-spine-shattering cackles and hooting? 

His eyes narrowed; the kitchen was silent, so silent his elf ears heard mice scurrying behind the walls.  

Heightening his exceptional hearing, the sound of light steps, slow and whispered, came from the stair case. 

He marched through the hall to the doorway into the corridor . . .  to find the lightweight, soft shoed woman coming down the stairs belonged to Sali.

Ready to hasten a stealthy retreat, he almost missed the look of her face.

“What is the matter?” he demanded with as much civility he could manage when dealing with this woman.

Sali barely looked at him, her aged eyes seemingly always upon his person, were now gravely downcast. “Injustice, cruelty.”

His forehead furrowed, “What are you talking about? What has happened here? Where is everyone?”

Sali still didn’t look at him, her words barely strong enough to pass her lips, “To separate lovers by law, toss aside rights because of sex,” her throat caught, “to strip women from children.” Finally she made it to the ground floor and looked up at him. Legolas took a step back seeing the haunt in her eyes. “Every tree has its bad roots, my dear Sindar. And evil men will walk amongst the righteous.”

Her feet trudged her away, “To think I have lived to see this day cometh. This bleak, bleak day.”

“Mistress?” he stepped after her but she kept going, head and feet set to a path away, “Sali?” he tried again, for the first time speaking her name. But she didn't respond. 

An aged, trembling hand brought a handkerchief to her eyes.

He reacted at once. “Sali?” he implored, taking her path to stop her, “What has befallen?” when her answer was further tears, he gently took her frail wrist and elbow and guided her towards the nearest chair.

“Are you ill? Can I bring you something?”

Sitting down she came a little closer to her senses, “I'm fine. It is not I who needs your attention, my fair fellow.”

“Then?” he knelt down beside her to look into her face, “who?”

Sali dabbed her eyes again, still not truly looking at him, but then with a deep breath to settle, she told him. “Baradon.”

 

Halfway through the wool shed, Legolas closed up behind the ranger's prone body. He quietly cleared his throat.

Roughly pulling himself into a sitting position, Baradon didn’t answer. The air was still from his lack of breath.

“What ails you?” Legolas quietly prompted.

Releasing his held breath with a whispered sniff, Baradon discreetly wiped at his face.

Legolas glanced longingly back at the exit. He had not expected to find the young man crying. Comforting crying men was not his job. Neither was comforting crying women. This was Aragorn’s talent. He could go find Urion?

Legolas didn’t move then sighed. “Baradon?”

Baradon kept his face turned away and finally spoke, “It's nothing, Sindar.”

Discomfort hastily turning to irritation, he pressed, pressing far more than perhaps was decent. “It is evidently not nothing. Tell me what has happened.”

His irritation grew when Baradon remained silent. “Speak, ranger.”

Baradon turned further away from him, shielding himself from sight. “The masters . . . reached their decision,” he took a couple breaths before regaining himself, “they voted nay. They say I'm ill-prepared to take a wife. That I am . . .  unworthy.”

An involuntary brow rose, “How did they come to this decision?”

Baradon buried his face in his hands. “I have only my family’s cottage. No farm. No treasure. I'm a ranger and nothing else.” He hunched over further, his tone becoming weaker, “Five years. They will review my situation in five years. Celegeth, she - they cancelled our betrothal and urged her to choose another.”

From what he'd seen of the young woman last night, that didn't seem likely. “Surely she would not.”

Baradon’s face turned away and he rose quickly for the door. “Please, Sindar,” he wept over his shoulder as he fled at speed, taking off to who knew where.

Legolas watched him go, a pang twisting in his breast.

Marching back into the manor, Legolas followed his nose. The fragrance was there; the particular mix of sweetness and flowers he could follow around the grounds like a bloodhound. 

The ruling over Baradon’s betrothal was ludicrous. Surely the masters’ had exceeded their authority? Not even his father was guilty for anything so malicious. Thranduil could be cruel and petty to his enemies, but to force lovers apart and order them to choose another?

Striding down the corridors, the scent led him straight to one of the supply cupboards, the medicine supply cupboard.

The door was ajar.

“Eryndes?”

The telling sniff and quick rustling told he him all he needed about what she’d been doing in there. He stepped around the door to see her wiping her face and his heart burned, “Why are you crying? Are you unwell?”

“I am quite well,” she told him, her voice anything but steady. She edged around him, hiding her face, “Please, I must beg you excuse me. I . . . have duty I must attend.”

“Eryndes? Wait.” Sali. Baradon. Now Eryndes? He tried to take her arm, “(Please tell me-)?”

“I am so sorry,” she gasped, dodging his hand and rushing away. “Please, I must go.”

He wanted to stop her. 

Instead, he had to watch her go. She didn’t want to speak to him. 

With a stern set to his jaw, he looked about him. Carthal was still the same; dark stone manor, grassy green compound filled with farming and families. Yet suddenly an inhospitable cloud was settling over the ancient fortress. 

It was silent. It was cold. 

 

Finding his way back downstairs, he went to the kitchen hoping to find Foruyndes. She was indeed there, as too were Sali, Mydedis, Mereniel and an irate looking Cordoves.

“Please tell me you’ve come to spare me from cooking, Sindar?”

“Slicing meat and opening jars is not cooking, Swan darling,” Mydedis put in cheerfully. “Sindar, dear. Whatever you need might have to wait for a bit. We’re a little short of hands at the present.”

“So I see,” he said darkly. He saw through Mydedis’ forced cheer. He saw Sali quietly carving at a bench. Foruyndes hadn’t even lifted her head. “Where are the others?”

Except for Cordoves muttering a curse and tossing a cleaned bone into the waste receptacle, they didn’t answer.

Sali sniffed before answering, “Some of the women are consoling the victims. They will not come down for supper. Most of the family folk are in meeting.”

“Sindar, my lad?” Foruyndes called without looking up, “Would you mind terribly giving an old woman a hand? I know I ask much of you but these old hands cannot keep up anymore.”

Walking awkwardly through the kitchen which had always been filled with laughter and warmth, he moved to Foruyndes’ side, “Will you not tell me what has befallen?”

Foruyndes handed him a knife and a large leg of cured pork, “Aye,” she soothed. “But know that our hearts are heavy and I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

Legolas cut into the pork as he’d been shown, “I shall endure.”

“You know about Baradon?”

Legolas stiffened, “That he would make an unworthy husband is the foulest of lies.”

“And about childless women?”

“Sali only said they were forbidden to be near the children,” he told her quietly, “the resurrection of ancient law, created during the years when plague killed thousands.”

“And left many women burying children and the rest barren.” Foruyndes stifled a sniff, “And about poor Arradis?”

He looked at her, “What of her?”

“The masters decreed Eryndes’ punishment to be in error,” Mereniel slapped a tray filled with roasted vegetables down on the opposite side of the bench, “They say Arradis has no proof it was her husband who hurt her. The masters compensated Coston with his wife’s treasure and lands, calling it a debt of injustice. Arradis has been left with nothing.”

Foruyndes pointed to the ceiling, “Many of the folk are meeting, discussing the situation-“

“The situation is people are considering leaving!” Cordoves shouted, “Including me.”

Legolas raised an eyebrow at her.

Her anger subsided and she looked down, “I’m sorry Sindar. I have three girls. How can I allow them to grow up in a land with no respect for women? I will take my girls and Arradis and we will find a home somewhere else.”

“I find it contradictory,” Legolas mused darkly, “the women are required to marry or suffer loss of face, yet the Dúnedain uphold the tightest laws and expectations of marriage. I have heard much about the duties and worthiness placed on a Dúnedain husband-”

“Aye,” Mereniel agreed, “the women must marry because it is only through them our bloodline will continue. If women were encouraged to remain maids, our race would die. That doesn’t mean we have to be barbaric. To be a husband of the Dúnedain is a privilege, since there more men than women, and so each man must continually seek to be found worthy of it. But now,” Mereniel sighed, “Families won’t want their children taught childless women are not to be trusted, face forced marriage or fear men-“

“My husband would never hit a woman!” Cordoves cut in hard, “Not even our girls. He always left it to me to chastise them. And Lobordir? He’d cut off his own manhood before striking a woman. Or I would’ve for him.”

“Many of the more powerful families,” Mereniel went on, shooting a tiresome look at Cordoves, “will not stand for the masters ruling. They will take to the south, leaving Carthal will be as it once was; a military outpost. No more community. No families. No children. No dancing or music. None would want to raise a family here.”

“With the families will go the number of rangers, their labours and trades,” Legolas put in quietly.

“Baineth’s family, you remember Baineth? Sweet thing,” Foruyndes nudged him until he nodded, “they are brewers. Her father is the master brewer and he will not allow his daughter to be kept away from children or have her stripped of right to property. Or told whom she will marry. The same with Geledir’s family, stockmen. Gueniel’s family, weavers. Tanners. Coopers, smiths and copperers. Families with thousands of years of knowledge will up and leave-“

“A few of the others are trying to convince them to stay.” Mereniel looked up at the ceiling, “Úrion and Eryndes vow when Strider returns, he will set the masters straight.”

“Aye he will. And my horse writes lovelorn-poetry-”

“Cordoves,” Legolas cut her off warningly. “Remember of whom you speak. He is your rightful king.”

Her hard edge faulted. “My life I swear his, but what of my girls?” she asked him barely above a whisper, “How can I trust their future to a reluctant and an absentee king?” She cleared her throat, “If he will not act, I will have no choice but to leave.”

“Have patience,” he said firmly. “Trust in Aragorn. I vow to you, he will not allow these rulings to become law.”

A few hours later, once all the food was sent out, so was Legolas, sent from the kitchen to go eat. None of his offers to stay and aid them further were accepted, and so he made his way to his seat in the half empty hall.

Legolas never thought he’d miss the usual deafening noise of talk and laughter.

He was almost to his seat when Eryndes approached, her graceful figure bent, her shoulders pulled low.

“I came to apologise,” she offered quietly, “for earlier.”

He studied her thoughtfully. “There is no need. The error is mine. I did not realise how strongly you would be affected by the masters rulings.”

She broke eye contact. “Most women adore children. Perhaps it is our greatest weakness.”

“I am sorry,” his words felt inadequate in his mouth.

She lifted her head and said with a brave smile, “All will be well again once Aragorn returns.”

“Indeed,” he agreed, a tingling sensation breaking out in his fingers, “Will you not sit,” he indicated the seat next to his, “for dinner?”

The breath held tightly in his lungs felt like a river ready to burst its bank during a flood. 

Her smile grew. “Thank you but I cannot. Many families still demand my presence. Today’s happenings will keep folk on edge to days to come.”

When she excused herself, he watched her go then dropped heavily into his seat.

“You look like someone’s stolen your wine,” Úrion laughed, coming to his seat on the opposite side of the table. “Just remember, I don’t like wine so it was probably one of the women.” Úrion filled his plate without waiting for a reply.

No, his wine was there.

A smile tugged at his lips and the darkness of his mood vanishing into bright sunshine.

Next to the wine was a steaming mug of uruilas tea.

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

Over the next few days, the Dúnedain continued to walk gloomy about each other. Most of the men were even more outraged than the women. Then there were some who cared little or even approved of the masters’ dictations. 

This of course led to heated words shot across from one table to another during meals, outside in the fields and soon leading to brawls.

Baradon kept admirably to his duties, his face ever strong and proud. Yet it didn't take elf eyes to see the hidden grief. Neither did his glance drift whenever Celegeth was in proximity. 

One early morning Legolas spied Baradon saddling his gelding. Making a decision, he led Aglarebon out his stall and drew beside them.

Baradon paused buckling the last strap but Legolas remained silent.

“Sindar?” Baradon finally asked, “You’re riding out?”

“As are you,” he answered simply.

“Where are you going?”

Raising a dark brow at the young man, he eased himself up upon Aglarebon’s back.

“I’m going to my family’s cottage,” he stammered red faced, “nothing of great importance. You don’t want to waste your time-”

“My time is mine to waste. Lead on.”

Baradon heard the order in his tone and quickly lead them out under the stone gateway and down the long forest banked road. Baradon’s family cottage turned out to be only a short ten minute ride, through intricate turns and twists along the less used tracks directly west of Carthal Manor.

Though not having any prior expectations, approaching the cottage Legolas fully admitted he was surprised. The cottage was large and built sturdy; at least twice the size of Eryndes’. The barn was also large with well maintained horse yards. The gardens were recently planted yet rosy with colour even this close to winter. There was a small stream nearby which fed into a pond filled with flowering reeds and ducks. Even the wood pile was well stocked.

Baradon spent most of every day at the manor, yet somehow still found time to do all this. He’d obviously been planning to provide a home, a comfortable home fit for a young wife for some time.

Yet the masters decreed all this not enough? So this was their strategy? Hurt those around Aragorn until he gave in and abdicated?

Legolas scanned the cottage; it was handsome. An obviously recent an extension had been done to the back. “Have you done all of this?”

Baradon looked down then dismounted. “Laeron and some of the others helped when their duties allowed. The women of the manor donated bits and pieces; linen and all that. I have a few horses over at Geledir’s. Not quite a dozen but the number’s due to grew with the coming spring.” He sighed and let his gelding wander freely. “The land extends three mile into the forest,” he pointed to the thick forest to the left, “At least two hundred paces will have to be cleared.”

Legolas looked at the dense forest, filled with age old trees and wild mints and blackberries. “Cleared for?”

“Farming.”

Baradon was no farmer. Legolas was going to mention that when he walked passed him towards the back of the cottage. Following he found him studying the stream.

“The gardens will have to be cut back to make way for equipment and machinery. These lands were never cleared for farming . . .” he trailed off, the tone of his voice telling volumes.

His family’s cottage was never intended for farming but a place of peace and privacy. Foruyndes and Sali had told him Baradon was the only one born of ranger parents, orphaned by the age of twelve and raised by his father’s best friend; Celegeth’s father. 

Legolas let out a deep breath. “Baradon. It is not right of me to speak on Aragorn’s behalf with a personal matter such as yours, but I do not think tearing down all three miles of forest will be enough to appease the masters. Their actions I believe to be more to do with Aragorn than you. It would be wise to wait for his return.”

Baradon was already shaking his head, the pain he’d been so strong at hiding blinked briefly onto his face. “I must . . .” his paused to stop the catch in his throat, “do something.”

“You are no farmer.”

He flinched. “I can learn. I must learn,” his lip trembled, “I won’t lose her. I couldn’t live with it. I love her. I’ve always loved her. Even when we were children, I knew someday I would marry her.”

“Have you,” he cleared his throat, “spoken with her?”

“Her father took them back to their farm last night, Carthal not being a good place for the younger kids anymore. He told me to wait a few days and he’d come with bullocks to help me with clearing-”

“Have you spoken to her?”

“And say what?!” Baradon snapped, completely out of character. The young man dropped his head in shame, “Forgive me, Sindar, I-”

“Has she heard from your own lips? That you are determined never to surrender her?”

Baradon lifted his head, doubt filling his eyes.

Legolas snorted at him, “Do you not think she would like too?”

The lightly bearded jaw loosed, lips parting, and Baradon glanced quickly back to where his gelding and Aglarebon were grazing then back to Legolas.

Knocking his head to the side, Legolas scoffed reproachfully, “(Go, you fool).”

For the first time in days, Baradon smiled then rushed away.

Horse and ranger were gone in moments and Legolas was left alone with Aglarebon at the cottage. He took in the house, the finely kept barn and grounds. The sun creeping over the trees filled with small birds, making the cottage glow with golden light.

It was a good home and from he’d seen, Celegeth would be a kind and loving wife.

Walking back towards Aglarebon, he conceded Aragorn was not the only one to be envied. 

 

Retracing the maze of tracks back to the main north road, Legolas gently pulled Aglarebon to a stop. He concentrated on the wind. By this time the sun was well risen. A disturbance sounded in the distance . . .

Dúnedain horses. Slow and with a wagon.

Faron.

A few hours after giving Legolas the warning, Faron and a small group left Carthal to hunt boar. Most likely just after the masters voted.

Aglarebon snorted impatiently.

“(Take ease, young one. We will wait for them),” he soothed.

Aglarebon hooved into the well worn road.

“(Have patience),” he stroked his mane, “(They shalt be long).”

He was correct. Half a minute later the hunters lead a wagon team over the crest and down the road. At the head was indeed Faron. 

Faron didn’t react to seeing them waiting and when they were close enough he guided his mare around Aglarebon then pulled up, “Fair morning for a ride, Sindar.”

“(Tell them to continue).” It had been almost a week since their fight and the warning the morning after. 

“You are on the masters council,” Legolas bit out when they'd dropped back far enough from the others to not be heard.

If Faron was surprised, he didn’t show it. “I voted against them,” he admitted easily, “but mine and Joust's vote counts for little. We are but juniors on a council twice my age.”

Legolas digested for a pause. “What of the others? Amben? Geledir? I refuse to believe-” he stopped when Faron laughed.

“They wouldn't dare oppose Nestdôl. Not while they still live at Carthal anyway. I'd wager half the folk are ready packed for the south by now? The man's a fool. Who will he reign over if there’s naught but rangers at Carthal?”

“Yet you and Joust opposed him.”

“We don't have any families to consider. Well, Joust has his elder sister, but we all know how Cordoves does things. None would be daft enough to mess with her or her kids.”

“What of Camaenor? He has no family.”

This time Faron did show caution, a fleeting shadow crossing his face, “Well we all have our secrets, don’t we? And Nestdôl’s the kind of man to keep dossiers on everyone. Facts and gossip.”

Legolas wasn’t given the chance to respond.

“Before you ask, Nestdôl knows nothing of you. He suspects you’re naught but a marionette, a shrewd spy for Thranduil, here to protect Aragorn and Woodland’s interests here in the north,” Faron explained then narrowed his eyes, “In that he is not precisely wrong, is he?”

Legolas could have chosen not to answer, but there was something about Faron that continued to irk him, like a small thorn stuck in his trousers. “I am no spy.”

Faron waved his words away harshly, “Yes, I’m sure elf-kings send their sons far away to dangerous lands all the time for kicks.”

Legolas gritted his teeth. “I have no desire to explain myself to you.”

“Of course not,” Faron hissed. “I’m just the one who figured out your not-so-little secret.”

And holding for ransom? 

This was not the kind of game Legolas was fond of playing. “What are you after, Faron?”

“Well done, by the way. You had quite the night, didn’t you? Tell me, do you intend to tell her your name before or after the wedding? After I’d wager. She can’t refuse once you’ve taken her to your bed and deflowered her-“

The knife was free from its scabbard before he’d even thought at it.

“(Easy, my lord),” Faron’s neck twitching away from the mithril blade.

“(Speak this way again and I will not stop the blade in time).” He held his knife to the man’s throat a moment longer, then replaced it to his back.

Faron rubbed his neck, perhaps to make sure it was still there, “I’ve heard legends of elves protecting their mates, but I never thought I’d ever lose my neck by one and she ain’t even yours yet.”

Legolas worked to loosen his jaw and all the other rigid muscles in his body, “You have been warned.”

“You were more fun before I told you I knew your secret.”

Scowling, Legolas urged Aglarebon forward to the head of the wagon, leaving Faron at the back.

After cooling down a few minutes, Legolas’ clenched his fist.

Faron was indeed clever; by striking up Legolas’ anger, he avoided answering his question. 

It mattered little however. Faron seemed to be enjoying himself and while he did so, Legolas’ secret seemed to be safe.

For now.

 

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

Days had passed since they'd last spoken any more than a few words in passing. 

It stopped now.

Spotting her seated at one of the tables out under the ancient cherry tree and surrounded by crates of herbs, he took a long breath.

Then approached.

“May I sit down?” he asked cautiously.

Her head shot up with alarm, “Oh, Master Elf. Oh, course you may. Please. Please, sit down.” 

Before he’d even sat, she continued at haste, “I am so sorry I have been neglecting you so these past few days. Just with all the discontent going round, we, that is, most of the heads of Carthal have been trying to appease the unrest. So many folk are talking of leaving, or thinking of taking a stand to overthrow the mast-” she caught herself, “Well, that is to say, folk, they talk of these things but that it mostly where most their efforts lie. Talking.”

Legolas however saw the guilt on her face and her eyes scan the nearby faces. He also heard the words; words spoken every day in his father’s court. Words of discretion and censor. “I would be grateful,” he stressed darkly, “if you would trust in me to speak without censor. I am no friend to Nestdôl.”

The trepidation was still there on her face and Legolas muttered, “Shall I swear?”

She was taken aback, “Swear?”

“To my worthiness of your trust?”

Her face reddened, “I did not mean to imply you are unworthy of trust-”

“I am no spy here,” he told her unequivocally, “for anyone. I swear nothing of your words will ever be repeated by my tongue or hand, upon my honour and life.”

Eyes wide, she gaped at him. “Master Elf, please, I never meant-”

“Do I have your trust?” he pressed firmly.

Eryndes lowered her eyes, “I seem to always be causing you offense.”

The lament in her voice grated him and he sighed, releasing the larger part of his temper. “Nonsense. I understand, I am different,” he took a bunch of dried herbs for closer inspection, and didn’t look at her when he said, “It cannot be easy to accept someone so very unlike yourself.”

“Nay,” she objected, pressing her hands on the table, “Nay. That is not true. You are different, true, but that only makes me want to know more about you.” she stopped a moment, “You are brother to Aragorn as I am sister. This alone engrains my trust in you, as implacable as it is for Aragorn.” 

Taking time to replace the herbs back on the table, he finally conceded his pride not quite so wounded after all, “Then you will not speak to me with censor.”

She closed her eyes then nodded. “What should I then say? Carthal is in a mess? You already know this.” She opened her eyes to stare empathically at him, “The people are in uproar. Nestdôl’s plan to make either Aragorn or I give in to him is turning the Dúnedain against each other. When we are not trying desperately to convince folk to wait for Aragorn’s return, we meet with heads of families to dissuade them not to take the law into their own. The rangers stand by Aragorn but those with families are ready to leave the moment Aragorn turns complete control over to the masters. Meanwhile, Arradis keeps upstairs, too afraid to come down. And the women-folk migrate around the grounds in packs.”

That struck him as odd. Come to think of it though, the women did seem to be more closely joined than normal. “Why?” he asked. “Surely there is no reason to be in fear.”

“They figure once one of their rights has been taken away, so too the rest shall follow.”

“Eryndes,” he stressed, “Your brother would never allow that to happen.”

She nodded, quickly, her face showing her distress, “I know he would never and I tell all who will listen. They people, they are deaf to reason. They do not want to listen.”

“Keep trying,” he soothed, “for when Aragorn returns, he will be glad for your efforts. So will your people.”

The distress on her face eased, “Thank you . . . for listening.”

Legolas took her gratitude with a nod. “There is,” he took a breath, “something I would ask you.”

“Anything,” she assured with a smile to warm the coldest heart.

By the beat of his heart, he wanted to speak of his intentions; to ask her permission for courtship. Yet staring at her sweet face and devastating smile, the words he’d so carefully crafted during the long nights escaped him.

Instead, he conceded and reached into a pocket to pull out something he'd been carrying around for weeks. He handed it to her, “I took this off a dead Dúnedain I stumbled across in Angmar. I have been putting this off for some time and that is no respect to him.”

Scanning the buckle, she said, “You are hoping someone will recognise it?”

“Not much to go on but there was,” he hesitated, not sure she'd have the stomach for a lot of description, “nothing else useful to identify him.”

“You are sure it was a him?”

“Pardon?”

“It can be hard to judge if the flesh is far too decomposed and only a skeleton remains.”

He needn't have worried. Her chosen trade probably had her examining remains in all states of degradation and disease. “He was male. I have examined many bodies and can be relied upon to be accurate.”

She accepted his word with an easy nod and put the buckle in her dress pocket, “I will ask around. Do you guess an age?”

“Living age or time in death?”

She blinked, “Ah, well. You perhaps have both?”

“My judgment for Dúnedain ages is as we both know limited. However he was of an older age from the greying of his hair and from the decaying flesh falling off his bones he was dead many weeks.”

Eryndes considered. “How did he die?”

“He was killed by orcs. Tethered to the ground and left.”

“No disease?”

Was she thinking plague? “From what I could see, there was no evidence of disease, however I am no expert in such things.”

“Because elves do not suffer diseases?”

His brow rose, “Because I am no healer.”

Her nose wrinkled, “You have never wanted to learn about medicine?”

A generous smile tightened around his eyes. “Just because I have the years does not mean I must learn all there is to know.”

“Then,” she grinned, “what do you know?”

“I know nothing of herbs,” he tossed a small bundle onto the table. “I know field dressing, affixing splints,” he thought further, “anatomy.”

“Anatomy?” she picked up the bundle he’d thrown and set it back where it came from.

“You are surprised?” he took another bunch, gave it a sniff then tossed it back. “How is a warrior expected to kill something if he does not know where to stick in the knife?” 

Eryndes reached over and again put the herbs back, “I study life to preserve it and you to take it.”

“I take to preserve the life of others,” he picked up another bundle of herb, just to see if it would annoy her.

She reached over and plucked it out of his hand, “And you know of nothing else?”

He gave her a patient stare. She was attempting to poke him for information and rather poorly. “I was educated as most elves are; language, mathematics, history, military stratagem, hitting people with sharpened rods of steel,” he enjoyed her unimpressed glower at his tease. “I am also thoroughly disciplined in diplomacy and politics, commerce, and governance,” his voice was bitter, like he had eaten something awful. Again.

“With such knowledge couldn’t you serve as an adviser to a king?”

He just about choked. “My lord rarely requests council,” he scowled, tossing another herb down on the table. “If on the rare occasion he did, he would rather listen to grasshoppers than I.”  

Finishing his little rant, he saw the quiet steadiness to her gaze, the slow building smile on her lips.

“Besides,” he cleared his throat, “I would rather drink the blood of an orc than be subjected to endless days held captive in his court.”

Reaching over, she returned the herb to its place, “Why would a grasshoppers opinion be more valid than yours? Does he not like you?”

He grimaced, “He does like me.”

“Maybe he resents how you liken his court to a prison.”

The utter truth of her unknowing words brought a chuckle from his throat, “Perhaps that is so.”

“Aragorn said you are like a commander?” she asked. 

He hesitated, his expression kept light but he felt cautious, “I am a commander, yes.”

“Commanders have no love for arts or music?”

“I tried,” he answered truthfully, “for a while but was completely without aptitude and so begged my father to release me from instruction.”

With a mischievous smirk, he reached for another herb-

Her hand landed on his with the lightest smack. “Master Elf-“

“That is I,” his face brimming with his best smile of innocence. 

Whatever she would have said, he never got to hear. A commotion started from round the back of the manor, down near the bathhouse.

“Another altercation?” Eryndes sighed warily, “Will they never tire of it?”

The shouting grew louder.

She started to get up, “We should intervene or someone is going to be hurt.”

Getting to his feet, Legolas heard the first punch being delivered. “Eryndes? Remain here.”

When he heard no reply, he turned just as she darted off-

-In the direction of the fighting. With a sharp growl, he swore foully and tore after her.

What was it with this foolish woman and her foolish need to go running towards danger? Most unable to defend themselves at least had the wisdom to run the other way.

His long, quick strides caught up to her easily as she rounded the corner. Taking a sure grasp around her waist, he yanked her out of the way just as a carelessly thrown stone flew passed her head.

When they, the able bodied Dúnedain and lone elf, broke up the fight and the instigators escorted to cool off with a forced dunk in the icy river, Legolas pulled Eryndes aside.

However, his stern words were met by a cheery “Thank you for saving me,” and “Yes, you are right to scold me. I really should know better.” 

Contrite and grateful, and yet completely unfulfilling to his frustration. 

Chastising a tree would've been more satisfying.

 


	17. The Heir of Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Thanks to all who reviewed, favoured, liked and kudos. 
> 
> ** Thank you to Frannel. Your honesty is always greatly appreciated.
> 
> *** Two chapters in the same month? Surely that deserves some M&Ms?? This was a ridiculously, insanely hard chapter to write. I think I’ve re-edited this chapter more times than any other so far! I can only hope I’ve done the effort justice and I don’t get chased down the street by burning torches (especially when I’ve grown so fat on M&Ms).
> 
> **** WARNING! Mature content of a violent nature. This story is aimed at mature readers.  
> *
> 
> ***** POST-POST UPDATE*****  
> As reviews have begun flooding in about the Arwen/Immortality issue/question, I please remind readers this story does not adhere completely to Tolkien law (See Authors Note and Warnings at start of story - Not all changes are listed or the warnings would be longer than the story!). Yes, I've changed things to the benefit of the story. I hope this does not tarnish the opinions of readers or retract from the enjoyment of the plot.

 

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

Aglarebon – Woodland Stallion, Sindar's horse

Aragorn/Strider – Male, Chieftain of the Dúnedain

Baradon/Sculls – Male, Elite Ranger Scout

Bregol/Web - Male, Ranger

Camaenor/Vice - Male, Master of Arms

Cordoves/Swan – Female, Elite Ranger Scout

Eryndes – Female, Mistress of Carthal & Apothecary

Faron/Dusk – Male, Hunting Master & Elite Ranger Scout

Foruyndes – Female, Mistress of Stores

Gueniel – Female, Midwife

Laeron/Wren – Male, Elite Ranger Scout

Lobordir/Joust – Male, Master of Stables & Elite Ranger Scout

Mydedis – Female, Mistress of Housekeeping

Mereniel/Ivy – Female, Elite Ranger Scout (Pregnant)

Nestdôl – Male, Master of Healing, Elder Master of Carthal

Romon – Male, Elder Master of Carthal

Sali – Female, Mistress of Kitchen

Sindar/Master Elf /Legolas – Sinda Male, undisclosed Prince of the Woodland Realm on unofficial secondment

Trîw/Jester – Male, Elite Ranger Scout

Úrion/Bear – Male, Second in Command

 

* * *

 

 

“Eryndes?”

She looked up from her thoughts to see Úrion emerging from the war-room.

“Is something wrong?”

“Oh,” she felt warmth spread over her throat, “I am waiting for Sindar.”

Úrion stopped short, “He is inside.”

Eryndes nodded and cast her eyes wearily at the door to the war-room, “I know.”

Úrion regarded her warmly with that smile of his which never failed to charm the women back in his youth, “It’s all right. You don’t need go in. I will get him for you.”

“No, please,” she stepped after him to take his arm, “please. It is no great matter.”

The wrinkles on his forehead deepened, “I don’t think he’d want you out here waiting for him.”

“Please, Bear,” she appealed, “What he is doing in there is far more important.” She started to move off, taking his arm with her, “I will come back later. Come, let us go down to the kitchen for tea.”

Úrion looked at her apologetically, “I’m sorry. I have to arrange changes for tomorrow’s patrols with the others. They’re waiting for me. A little later perhaps?”

“Of course,” she said smoothly, letting go of his arm. She watched him stride off down the hallway but didn’t follow. Instead she returned to stand by the window, gazing out over the grounds and waited.

Aragorn left Carthal three weeks earlier and was due back any day now. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Strider?” Trîw called.

Aragorn looked about them. The young ranger was right. “What has happened here? Where is everyone?”

“That was what I was about to say.”

The guards were standing to their duty above the wall and in the towers, and yet . . .

Aragorn decided on caution and held up his hand for his company to stop. “Úan? Sound our approach.”

Úan took up his horn and filled the air with a long bellow into the early afternoon.

The return horn came swiftly to meet them.

“There is no alarm,” Joust pointed out unnecessarily. “But then where are the folk in the fields? I don’t even see a child.”

“We’ll find out in a few minutes,” Aragorn told him, flicking his wrist forward. He kept them at an easy canter; no sense worry the people if there was indeed no cause for haste or alarm. 

They quickly descended the hill then turned the sharp right from the great north road to the manor, passing through the dense forest on either side.

The gate was not even closed. Aragorn glanced back to Lobordir, but Joust simply gave him a bemused shrug.

Pulling his horse well short of the main embarkation circle, Aragorn quickly scanned the compound. There seemed to be no trouble. Everything was as he’d left it. 

Except for the hundreds of Dúnedain mulling around in the late afternoon sun.

“My lord?” a ranger called down from the gate tower.

“What is going on here?” he called back.

“My lord?”

“The Dúnedain? Where are my people?”

The guards looked at each other, then the one who’d spoken answered, “My lord, your people have been keeping away. They have awaited your return and no doubt seek your guidance.”

Aragorn spied the man closely, “They are keeping away?”

“My lord,” another spoke up, “Many families are preparing to abandon Carthal.”

“Abandon Carthal?” One of Aragorn’s men cried from behind him.

“What has befallen?” Aragorn demanded, “Speak plainly!”

 

* * *

 

 

“You have been waiting for me?”

Eryndes jumped, grabbing the windowsill and turned to face the speaker. She had no idea how long she’d stood there, staring out at the quiet grounds of her family. “I have news on the fallen Dúnedan you discovered in Angmar.”

Sindar came to stand in front of her, “How long have you been waiting?”

She shrugged, very stiffly, “I have someone who thinks they know who the buckle belongs to.”

His blinkless regard didn’t change, “There is no need to be afraid.”

“How silly?” she automatically rebuked. “Why should I be afraid?”

Sindar stood silently, every inch of him patiently waiting for her to answer.

She looked away. “I am hardly afraid, just the other month I went in-”

“When the room was full of rangers.” He closed the distance between them, “I do not understand. There are those long dead whom I would be glad to see again.”

She felt the blood drain from her face.

Sindar’s expression softened and extended his hand, “Come, you will see there is nothing to fear.”

Stepping back from him, her instinct was to flee. 

But Sindar kept his hand out to her, “You still will not trust me?”

The internal battle she fought with her fears vanished. He wanted to help her, she could see that. But it was his suggestion which smarted.

Of course she trusted him. Now she had to prove it.

With an abated breath, she slowly took his hand and he held tightly in a show of encouragement.

“You must think me a fool.”

“Nonsense,” he corrected quickly. Perhaps too quickly. “We are all afraid of something.”

“What are you afra-?” she stopped herself. “Forgive me, I sometimes speak without thought.”

“Have I not already said you need not hold your tongue with me? I prefer speaking without pretence.”

She pursed her lips then admitted with a shiver, “Serpents,” she shivered again, “I fear them like a worm from a bird.”

Sindar snorted, “My father also despises them. He has never forgiven the time I brought one into,” he paused, “into our home.”

Her stomach sickened, “Why on Earth-?”

“He especially took it to heart finding it in his bed.”

Jaw dropping in horror, Eryndes shrieked, “Why would you do such a thing?!”

He shrugged in complete indifference. “It was a cold day; snakes do not like the cold.”

Eryndes laughed, out of abhorrence or humour she didn't know, “Your father is right; I could never forgive you either.”

“Even elves were young once,” Sindar said with a smirk, “but I was a particularly troublesome elfling.” 

Unable to contain her eagerness, she asked, “Did your father punish you?”

“Continually and rather severely too but to no avail,” he gloated, “Punishment never did much good.”

“How old were you? When you put a snake in his bed?” 

“About the same as the youngest son of Langwen.” He explained when she frowned, “If I said seventeen years, you might not understand.”

She nodded. Amarthedhel was five years old and so elves really did mature slowly. With a wry smile, she boldly pressed, “Severely punished?”

Sindar smiled then looked around them.

Her eyes followed his with a gasp. She’d been so engrossed she failed to notice they now stood metres inside the room. Her eyes snapped at once to the spot over by the far right, towards the opposite end of the room.

“Eryndes?” he softly enquired when she didn’t speak.

“My father,” she hesitated, then pointed, “I mean, the apparition stood over there, by the coat of arms.” There was little pointed prevaricating any further; if his opinion of her was going to be damaged by this whole affair, the pie was already out of the oven.

“Did he speak?”

“He tried but no sound came,” her eyes did not drift from the place she’d seen her father.

“And never appeared anywhere else?”

Her head shook gently.

“Eryndes?”

Disappointment overcame fear, “I do not know what I feared more; my father coming forth, or that he would not.”

“Are you alright?”

She conceded a small nod.

“Would you like to leave?”

Her eyes tore away from her memory and looked about them. “I have not taken in this room for nigh thirty years. I feel rather foolish. All this time . . . And yet he does not come.”

“What would you like him to say if he were?”

Her eyes dropped to the floor and she sighed. More and more lately, she and Sindar were leaning on each other in Aragorn’s absence. More and more she was sharing her confidences with him.

If there was a time to prove her trust in him . . .

“A week ago I had a man flogged-”

“Yours is a soft touch.”

She started, her eyes widening in astonishment, “You call whipping a man ‘soft’?”

But Sindar simply shrugged, “Aragorn vowed he would have ordered the man publicly castrated.”

Eryndes swallowed, hard. “Truly?”

His piercing silver eyes spoke as gravely as his voice, “And I would have thrown him to a pack of wargs.”

“Alive?” she choked.

“How else would he witness his punishment?”

When she remained silent, Sindar’s face softened. “Those who prey on the defenceless do not deserve pity or mercy. You judged what you deemed fair and your father should be glad of your fortitude.”

Eryndes studied the colours of the great shield hung above the window; Carthal’s colours of dark red, lush green and gold. “Thank you,” she said at last. 

“(For what)?”

Her heart thudded suddenly hard in her chest, but she stood her ground and faced him. “For being there that day,” she smiled, glancing around them, “For being here now.”

Sindar inclined his head, “(At your service, my lady).”

The memory of that last time he’d called her a lady brought warmth to her face. “It is a dreary room,” she laughed at last with a dismissal wave. “Much better to spend the day out in the fresh air. Would you care for tea?”

A slow smile grew on his lips, “I would.”

“Good,” she boldly took his arm as if he were Aragorn or Úrion and led him out the war-room. “You will be pleased to know Sali has put the last of the sweet cherries to brandy and sauce, and hidden them away.”

“Why should I be pleased?” he asked in feigned disinterest.

She grinned, “Because I know where.”

 

* * *

 

 

Crossing the last couple hundred metres to the main circle, Aragorn left his horse in the care of the ranger on duty and strode up the stairs two at a time and marched through the corridors.

Hearing talking coming from the great hall, he directed his path there in haste.

Just inside the doorway he came to an abrupt halt.

“I see you have finally returned,” his friend, his brother greeted with a tang of pepper to his tongue.

From his side, Eryndes whirled about with a bright smile, “Aragorn!” She dumped her tea on the nearest table dashed forward to embrace him, “Thank Eru.”

Aragorn returned her embrace but kept his eye on Legolas, “Sindar?”

Legolas had upon him the look Aragorn learnt very early on in their friendship to loathe.

Disappointment.

“Once you are released from your sister,” Legolas said gravely, “I believe we have much to discuss.”

“My lord!”

Aragorn saw Úrion’s large frame coming inside the great hall from the side door. “I haven’t been called ‘my lord’ so much in my life as I have been this day.”

“I am so sorry,” Eryndes whispered from his shoulder, “I did what I could to keep the people together.”

With a deep sigh, he gave his sister a lasting squeeze before gently pulled her back, “I’m sorry but I think I must speak with Sindar and Úrion immediately.”

Eryndes nodded emphatically, “Aye, of course.” She walked back over to Legolas to collect her mug, and with a smile, his. 

What Aragorn then saw caught his breath.

The way he watched her walk away and disappear into the kitchen . . . That particular tint upon his blinkless gaze.

Aragorn knew what it meant; he’d seen it many times before. 

Just never before from Legolas.

 

* * *

 

 

Once the main door to the war room was closed, Aragorn stood firm with his arms crossed and faced them. “I have heard about the council’s rulings. You’re spared a retelling.”

Úrion spoke first, “My lord-”

“Aragorn,” Aragorn interrupted his friend, “or Strider. I’ve never cared to be called formally, and not by you of all people.”

“Perhaps he does so,” Legolas snipped in from over by the wall, “to remind you of whom and what you are.”

The snideness to his words left nothing unsaid. “The council keeps the folk together, Sindar, that is why it was assembled-”

“It does not appear to be working. Did I not warn you?”

Úrion looked between them and the unshakable man looked troubled. “The council is surely wrong. You must countermand their authority before Carthal is all emptied.”

Aragorn kept his focus squarely upon Legolas, “If I were to do that, how then would the people take their rulings as law? Would they not always be looking to me for the final say?”

“That is what it means to be king.”

The bite in Legolas’ words struck him like a blow to Aragorn’s chest. “I have never wanted to be king.” The disappointment on his beloved brother’s face deepened, sending a flash of anger through him, “What of you? Do you wish to be king?”

Legolas’ arms dropped to his side, his feet widened.

With a long breath, Aragorn tore his eyes from Legolas to Úrion, “I won’t wait any longer. Send word to Gell. I want him and his men here immediately. Tell them I will come with the caravan leaving in the morning and they will accompany us on the return journey.”

Úrion hesitated, “What of Nestdôl? You know what he truly wants.”

Aragorn felt sick. “I do. Perhaps Gell will not only provide rangers to increase our number but also an answer to the question of Carthal’s master.”

Úrion stammered, “Do you mean . . . Gell is to be-?”

“He is a good man. She might take to him.” He ground out the words and fighting against sickness uttering them brought, “Especially if I suggest it to her.”

Úrion didn’t move.

“Go, do as I command. I do not like it but the time has come for Eryndes to do her duty.”

He watched Úrion open his mouth as if to argue, but then gave a curt nod and rushed out the door. 

“Surely you do not intend-”

“I will do as I must,” Aragorn snapped, slowly turning to him, “for what is right for my people and for my sister.” He glanced down at the floor, “Is that not what you want? For me to command and make choices as any king?”

A vile anger spewed from Legolas’ face and he took another step towards him. “A king does not force his sister to marry to appease a man like Nestdôl!”

Aragorn stood his ground, his chin high in the face of Legolas’ ire. When he spoke though, he kept as calm as he ever could, “I will not force her, I’d take my own life first. However the time has come; she can no longer hold to her stubbornness without acknowledging the price she will pay for it.”

“So you will not force her, but give her an impossible choice?”

Aragorn’s calm evaporated, “Do we not have similar choices before us?” He glared hard then stepped away, heading in his own anger towards the door. “Now, if you please, I must go-”

“She will not submit.”

Aragorn held his eyes closed. If what he’d seen just before was indeed the way of things, he had to proceed carefully. “You’ve only known her two months-”

“How long does it take-?”

“She was raised the daughter of a lord. Her lineage traces back to Númenor. She is a lady of the Dúnedain and she will do her duty.” Aragorn breathed in, “With respect, I ask you to remain detached in this matter.”

Legolas stepped dangerously after him, “You would warn me away from her?”

Now Aragorn was truly startled. “Melloneg,” he said tentatively, then shook his head, “No, never.” He held his gaze; Legolas had just shown his hand. “Do you,” Aragorn took in a deep breath, “have something to say regarding my sister?”

Legolas’ powerful stance wilted and he looked away, the guilt on his face as plain as day. “You have no matter of honour to defend if that is your question.”

Aragorn couldn’t hold in his inappropriate laugh, “Of that I'd never doubt. Not with you.” 

“Good,” Legolas turned and strode away.

Aragorn braced himself. “(Are you in love with her)?”

All drive left his friend's legs and he came to a slow halt. When Legolas did look back over at him, it looked as if he’d been sucker punched in the gut. “I . . . do not know.”

It was an honest answer.  “Are you-,” Aragorn hesitated, choosing his words with care, “Is your heart set upon her?”

Legolas closed his eyes briefly but when they opened again, they were full of solid conviction, “Yes. My heart is set upon her.”

Aragorn rubbed his tired face and released a frustrated groan. “Why did you not tell me?”

His question was met by heavy silence. 

“Well,” he pushed, “Has she given you any indication-”

“Not as yet,” Legolas snapped.

“Do you believe she may-?”

“I do not know!” The set to Legolas’ jaw told Aragorn to wait and so after a handful of heartbeats, his friend confessed reluctantly , “I have yet to seek her consent for courtship.”

For the longest moment, Aragorn let everything settle, his thoughts considering the possibilities. If Eryndes had giving any encouragement, any show of attraction or interest- But she hadn't and her words from the night of the dancing left little doubt; Legolas’ regard for her was not reciprocated.

“What are your intentions?” he asked finally.

Legolas remained silent, the expression on his face one of indignation. Perhaps it was a foolish question to ask an elf. 

“I . . .” he sighed, so much had changed so quickly, “I would never command Eryndes to marry, but I do understand women find Gell a charming sort of man.”

Legolas stiffened, “What are you saying?”

“Gell is a good man,” he began. “For some time now I planned to encourage a union between the two.”

Legolas pierced him with his glare.

“(My brother)-” he began.

“You expect me to remain idle and watch you play for another to win her affection?”

Aragorn looked upon him sadly, “Gell would be a good and honourable master of Carthal,” he paused, “and a good husband-”

Legolas turned and headed for the door.

“And he’s not an immortal prince to another realm.”

“(Go kiss an orc!)” Legolas snarled almost to the door.

“Legolas!”

Legolas turned back to Aragorn quicker than he could react and bore down on him, “You dare speak my name?!”

Aragorn held his ground, his face still sympathetic which did naught but fuel the elf’s rage. “Swear to me now,” Aragorn implored firmly but calmly, “now, this very moment you have my sister’s heart. Pledge yourself hers. Declare the two of you betrothed.”

The rage on his face lost most of its fire.

Aragorn stalked in even closer, stamping down on the fracture in his friend’s armour. He could ill afford to step down now, “Send for your army, bring them here and crush Angmar.”

He was being cruel, Aragorn knew for if Legolas did than Lasgalen would be lost.

“Swear to me Carthal will ever remain under your family’s personal protection without your father’s consent-”

“(Stop).”

“I don’t want to be cruel,” Aragorn reached up and firmly took his shoulder, “But don’t you see? How can I not seek ways to protect her and her people when you cannot promise even one?”

Legolas brushed off the other’s hand but Aragorn retook it and said softly, “How can I? I have to do what is best for my people.”

Aragorn let go and stepped back sadly, “I’m sorry, melloneg. I have no choice. I cannot dissolve the council without a strong leader to take their place. I must find another way to protect my people. If there is any chance she will have him, I must encourage it.”

Defeated, Legolas turned and trudged towards the door. But there he stopped, his face full of venom, “You would have a choice if you chose to take up your place as their king. But instead you keep passing off your duty to others. I may have no desire to be king, but that is my luxury; my father is strong and full of life. You, however, are content to shun your birthright and palm off your responsibilities to others, no matter the consequence. The masters’ ruling doesn’t work for you so you bring in another to take their place?” Legolas shook his head, “Sometimes I am utterly ashamed to have named you brother.”

Pain stabbed through Aragorn’s chest. “You know nothing of my reasons-”

“Your reasons? Your fear of becoming Isildur?” he scoffed. “You are not him. You are Aragorn, the son of Arathorn. It is time you accepted that.” He turned and strode through the door, “After all, Arathorn was a good man too.”

 

* * *

 

 

Hours after his quarrel with Legolas, Eryndes came tentatively into the war room with a tray held in front of her. Surprised, he rose from the chair he’d sunken into and not moved since. He walked towards her, “You’re in the war room.”

Her head tilted to the side with a wry smile, “I am.” 

He frowned, “But how? You haven’t come in here since you were little.”

“Sindar brought me. Now I feel a bit silly for being scared for so long. It is just a room.” She raised the tray towards him, “You missed supper.”

A wealth of affection warmed his heart, “You shouldn’t have worried. I would’ve come down eventually.”

A touch of hesitation passed over her. “Maybe I wanted an excuse to see you.”

“When since do you need an excuse?” he asked taking the mug of ale from the tray with one hand and the tray filled with supper with the other he placed it on a table.

“I . . . figured you and Sindar argued,” she admitted quickly, rambling on the way she did, “I wanted to know if I could help in some way. I mean, I know it is not my place to interfere, but you and Sindar, well, you are very fond each other and really shouldn't be arguing -”

“We have fought far worse in the past,” he assured her with a smile. “It would take much more than mere words spoken in anger to damage our kinship.” He then let out a deep troubled sigh, “Eryndes, sister, will you sit with me?”

When she’d sat, he took her hand and took the seat opposite her. “Are you aware Nestdôl has it in his head for you to marry his grandson?”

A shocked laugh was her answer until she saw he was serious. “Bregol? He is half my age!”

“Have you not noticed his attentions towards you?”

She opened her mouth, and hesitated, “I guess, a little. I thought perhaps he was simply playing, as many of the young ones do. No maiden is immune to their attentions in a land filled with so many unwed men. None take them seriously.”

Aragorn studied her patiently, “You did nothing to encourage-”

She tore her hand from his, “How could you ask me such a thing?!”

He laughed, “I had to ask. Nestdôl suggested you did and to call him out, I first have to hear it from you.”

“Well,” she said, smoothing her ruffled feathers. “Nestdôl is a cantankerous old man, as you said. Why you don’t run him out of Carthal is beyond me.”

“There may come a time for that,” he conceded, “but not now. Tell me, is the idea of marrying Bregol completely out of the question?”

She sat back, “Are you asking so you may defend me honourably or because you think I would be so desperate to marry I would consider the likes of Bregol?”

Aragorn waited.

Finally, she huffed, “Of course I would never consider him. He is a nice enough boy, but surely you can understand a woman wants a man, not a boy.” She quickly added with a growl, “He could not even dance at our wedding.”

Laughing, he retook her hand, “I am glad you don’t consider Bregol but dancing is not the most important thing when considering a husband.”

“I disagree,” she lifted her chin, “Dancing tells a woman much about a man. The way he holds her, guides her, respects her space, and keeps away from her feet.”

Aragorn conceded with a incredulous smile then tempted carefully, “Sindar dances well.”

Eryndes sighed dreamily. “Oh, doesn’t he, most splendidly. His wife would be a lucky woman. I mean, elf. Lucky elf.”

Aragorn considered her for a pause. “It would take a kind and gentle lady, a lady of great patience to win Sindar’s heart. She would not be a meek creature.”

“He does have a bit of a temper,” she agreed easily, another wistful smile in her eyes, “and tends to say the most unkind things when his mood is ill.”

“He gets that from his father,” Aragorn grinned, “His mother was the kindest of souls. Sindar inherited his father’s passionate spirit along with his temper.”

“You knew his mother?”

“Alas,” he negated, “she died a very long time ago. I have only hearsay for my knowledge.” 

Making the decision, he stood up, “I don’t believe Sindar would have come down to supper either?”

Eryndes watched him sadly, “Nay, he did not. Neither of you did. And after the icy encounter in the great hall upon your return, well that was why I thought you two had quarrelled.”

“But you came to find me first?”

Her lips parted, “Of course. You are my brother. And-”

“And?”

She blushed, “I did not know where to find him.”

He held out the tray to her, minus the ale of course, “He will be up on the roof.”

Eryndes stared at the tray, “Aragorn?”

“Would you?” he pressed, “I would not see him go hungry. Please?”

She stood finally and took the tray from him, “Very well but I still think the two of you are being foolish. Regardless of what the fight was about.”

Aragorn lead her to the door with a smirk, “Be sure to tell him you think so.” 

Her face turned dubious.

“Tell him he’s a fool for sulking.”

“Like you have been?”

Aragorn chuckled and opened the door for her, “Precisely. Now don't take no for an answer or stand for any of his temper.”

Eryndes frowned at him, “You are not playing another one of your games, are you?” 

He kissed her cheek, “Absolutely not.”

No, this was definitely not a game.

 

* * *

 

 

“Master Elf?” she called out into the bitter cold and rainy night air up on the roof. “Master E-”

“What are you doing up here?” came the harsh reply.

Fright filled her down to her toes, but she held herself firm. He was always startling her. “You did not come for dinner.”

In the darkness, the tray was taken from her hands and she was pulled back under the shelter of the overhang, “So once more you venture out into the freezing rain with no overcoat? Are you trying to catch your death?”

“Once more you prefer being up here sulking instead of eating,” she said tartly, guessing where he stood in front of her.

The sound of a toothy hiss came from behind her, “You cannot even see where I am. How did you plan on not falling off the roof?”

“A candle would have been snuffed in the wind,” she counted, turning to face where the voice had come from. Her vision was slowly adjusting, and she finally saw his towering silhouette. “And the roof has railings. And I can see you just fine.”

He didn’t answer for a moment and she wondered if her eyes had played tricks on her and she actually couldn’t see him at all.

But then she felt his hand on her arm. “Come,” he said with a little more civility, and wrapped her arm around his, “I will not share my food with the wind.”

Back inside, Sindar lit a candle and she watched how he sat down on the floor and started eating after the polite offering of her some. She slid down to sit on the floor opposite him. His brow rose but didn’t comment. Of course it was hardly lady-like to be sitting on the floor. But she did it anyway. It was good enough for an elven lord.

When he’d finished, he set his plate aside on the tray next to him. “You have not asked me why.”

“Why you were on the roof sulking?” she set her skirts better around her legs. She might be on the floor, but that didn’t mean she was going to go so far as to allow her legs to be seen. “You argued with Aragorn.”

“He told you?”

“I guessed and he confirmed it.”

He hesitated. “Did he tell you why?”

She plucked at a loose thread on her dress, “Something silly, no doubt. Is that not what all arguments are about, something so silly that in a year no one can remember?”

When he didn’t add anything more, she looked up and found him staring at her in the low light, a wry smile in his eyes.

“Is it not true? Once an argument is settled all is forgotten?”

Sindar stretched out his long legs and folding his arms over his chest, “Sometimes. Most times. But not always.”

“I would say you argued about Nestdôl and the council. All week you have been vouching for the moment Aragorn returned, he would set things right.” She wanted him to correct her and say Aragorn was setting things right, but when Sindar remained quiet - “He is not rescinding their rulings?”

Sindar got to his feet and picking up the tray, he came to stand over her with a hand extended.

Eryndes took his hand and allowed him to help her to her feet.

He didn’t let go immediately, “Worry not. He will. Just be patient.”

She pursed her lips but then nodded.

“Now,” he smiled, “Did you not promise me cherries in brandy sauce? Do not think I failed to notice their absence.”

She laughed. “Not brandy sauce. They are soaked in brandy and served with a toffee and cream sauce.”

“You have me enticed,” he exhaled looking to the ceiling, slowly shaking his head, “There are numerous fairy tales warning elves of the evils of ladies bearing sweets.” 

Her laugh echoed around them.

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

Aragorn saw them from across the hall, walking side by side towards the kitchen, talking together. Smiling. Laughing.

Did he dare get his hopes up? Back on the night of the great feast he’d played a little on Legolas’ ineptitude with the fairer sex as he’d always done. Not just for amusement but also in the hope someday one might spark his interest. It was forever in vain though; Legolas’ heart was never to be moved.

Until now.

The forces which ruled the heart sure worked in mysterious ways.

Aragorn was truthful when he’d told Eryndes there was no great difference between men and elves. Love between races was not only possible, it happened. 

He and Arwen fell in love.

It was costly however. What Arwen was prepared to give up tore Aragorn’s heart to pieces. 

Would Legolas be prepared to sacrifice the same if they fell in love? 

Knowing him as well as he did, Aragorn already knew the answer.

Across the hall, Legolas held open the door to the kitchen and they both disappeared inside. Aragorn dropped his head back down to his meal. 

“The people are waiting for word,” Úrion said from across the table. “Do you intend to do nothing and wait, hoping Eryndes will find Gell an acceptable suitor?”

Aragorn took another spoonful of stew.

“As your friend, I have to speak my mind; Gell’s a good man, a fine man. But as man who knows men, he’s not the type to settle for the one woman.”

He took a long draught of ale before answering, “As I recall, neither were you.”

“Gell’s younger than I was when I married. What man of his age, with his talent with women wants to be bound to just the one?”

Aragorn shrugged, “Joust would’ve if Eryndes shared even half his adoration.”

“But there again is my point,” Úrion stressed, “I love my wife. Joust has loved Eryndes from childhood. Gell does not love Eryndes. He doesn’t even know her.”

Aragorn pushed his empty plate away and finished the last of his ale. Úrion was his friend, but after all the happenings of late, he wasn’t in a great mood for talking. What he wanted was time alone; space and quiet to think. “Time will tell.”

“Time is not something we have in great supply. Angmar is massing, their orcs attack our farms and the Dúnedain are fracturing? Sure Gell will strengthen our numbers, but only if half of them haven’t fled south.”

“They won’t go,” Aragorn tried to assure him, “The families have threatened to leave before-”

“Life is hard enough here without having to fear tyranny and injustice.” Úrion stood up, his normally unflappable features now turned bitter, “My sons are all men now with Laeron old enough to make his own decisions but I will not risk my wife and unborn child on the hope of a union between Gell and Eryndes.” He moved out from the bench to stand beside Aragorn, “I will send them south with the others.” Úrion didn’t bother bidding him a good night and Aragorn watched him head for the upper levels. No doubt to cuddle up to his tiny wife and wonder just what kind of future her and the child she carried faced.

Aragorn sat there, remembering the cheerful night of just over three weeks ago; children playing games, the women singing away the night, the men drinking and laughing in fellowship. 

If things went the way they were headed the memory would be the last.

Aragorn remembered fondly the way Fuieryn would scold poor Thalawest, calling Carthal a slum not fit for dogs and only after the both of them worked all those years to make the manor what is was today. 

What scolding Fuieryn would give now? For a woman with such an angelic singing voice, her shriek could  rattle the manor to its foundations.

And what would she think of her daughter’s elf-suitor?

Getting up from his seat, Aragorn went to take a long walk around the grounds. It was still raining and the wind howling against the window panes, but sometimes the cold was just what he needed to clear his head.

 

* * *

 

 

Eryndes glowered down at the garden beds. What a mess the wind and rain left the last of the late summer vegetables!

Tossing the mattock to the ground, she strode away-

Only to stop, turn around, pick up the tool and return it back to the shed where it belonged.

“Would you like some help?”

Hearing his voice coming from the fence-line, Eryndes clenched her fist tightly. Forcing a smile, but a carefully benign smile, she faced him, “Thank you, but no. I think the weather has finally won the battle. At least until spring.”

Bregol leapt over the fence and walked towards her. “It’s not the mattock’s fault,” he beamed widely at her.

She forced a laugh. Really she shouldn’t feel so uneasy, no matter what his intentions were. He was just a boy, a pawn in Nestdôl’s schemes. It wasn’t his fault. “Perhaps not,” she agreed. “Well, look at the sun. I am filthy and due in the kitchen.”

“I like it when you’re filthy,” his grin didn’t waver, “makes me think you’re real and not a walking dream.”

Queasiness filled her stomach. “Really, Bregol,” she reproached as carefully as her unease allowed, “I am just as real as any other. Now, please, I must go.”

His hand on her arm stopped her, “Can’t we talk awhile?”

With another measured smile, she gently slid off his hand, “I am sorry. Another time perhaps.”

He stopped her again, this time blocking her path, “You always make time for our talks.”

It was unreasonable to feel anxious; he was just a boy. Yet anxious was what she felt. “Perhaps you should save your talks for a younger woman,” she encouraged, putting on the best show of nonchalance her mother ever taught her. “A handsome boy like you should be off charming the younger maidens.”

Something in his eyes flashed. “I’m not a boy.”

“I meant no offense,” she soothed hastily with her heart jumping into her throat, “Now, please. I am needed back at the manor.”

“Bregol?” she said firmly when he didn’t move out of her way. 

His hard stare broke and he walked stiffly away.

Not even taking a moment to breathe, Eryndes made her way back to the manor as quick as she could without drawing attention.

It wasn’t Bregol’s fault. He was just a boy.

Cleaning her face and hands at the washhouse, she dried herself and felt better. Poor Bregol must think her awful, but if Aragorn was right, it was far better to be cruel than kind. 

‘Kindness only encourages them,’ her mother told her endlessly.

The sound of a baby crying drew nearer. And nearer.

“Eryndes?” the voice of a young women called through the washhouse.

A smile, a genuine smile lit her face. “Amdiel.”

“I’m sorry. I don't want to get you in trouble,” she came rushing to her, holding little Brui to her, “Nestdôl said he has wind, no concern. But he won't stop crying. The herbs, they don’t do anything.”

Eryndes bit her lip. If someone saw her . . .

Brui’s continued bawling torturing her heart. Quickly looking around them and finding no one, she took him into her arms, “There, there, little one.” The boy continued to cry, “I know,” she soothed gently, laying him down on a nearby table, “I know. Your tummy hurts, yes. There, there.” Her fingers gently probed his belly and there was no mistake. “You have enough wind in there to start a gale,” she cooed, slowly starting to massage, guiding the wind around his insides.

A satisfying pop caught her ear. “There's a start,” she approved.

Slowly the boy’s cries started to ease and after ten minutes, he was staring up at her with a wide smile, “There, that feels better,” she bent low over the boy and pressed kisses to his chest, “hmm, much better.” The boy’s small hands cupped her face, and with a few more kisses she was rewarded with an adorable laugh, “Does that tickle?” she kissed even more, making his laugh louder.

Amdiel watched her keenly, “You’re a magician, Eryndes.”

She righted herself and continued to massage, “My mother was the magician, I am her understudy at best.”

“Nestdôl never takes the time-“

“Well, let’s not dwell. You will have to do as I have just done, for if Nestdôl caught me we both would be hauled over the hot coals.”

Amdiel stepped beside her, “Aye, you’d better show me again-“

“What are you doing?!” an enraged voice boomed through the room.

Both women looked guiltily at the doorway. Nestdôl must’ve been just waiting for her to disobey. That or Bregol told his grandfather just where to find her.

And now they were caught. 

Quickly, both Amdiel and her wrapped the boy back up and placed him protectively into his mother’s arms.

“Nestdôl,” she tried to reason, “He had wind. I did naught but coax the air out-“

“You were told! You were ordered!”

Both Eryndes and Amdiel held the other, both urging the other towards the door, “Nestdôl, calm down. It was just a massage and Amdiel was with me the whole time-“

“What does that matter?” he demanded, following them as they tried to escape.

“I was supervised!” 

Amdiel reached the door first and pulled Eryndes along with her, “He is my son and I was here the whole time!”

That didn’t count it seemed. “I ordered you to remain at distance from the children!” he boomed.

Outside, Eryndes felt a little more courage in the cool air, “Yes, we all know why!” she cried, “It has nothing about an ancient law. You will never bend me to your will!”

Nestdôl stormed after them, “How long until all your friends turn on you? How long before all the women demand you cleave?” he stood before, throwing a finger into her face, “It’s your fault. Your disobedience that has led to this-”

“My disobedience?” Eryndes cried even louder, her heart in her mouth and shoved his finger away, “I am mistress of this house-”

“An old maid in charge of Carthal? Is there nothing more preposterous! If it wasn’t for your ‘brother’ you would’ve done as you were told years ago and we’d have a master! Not some ‘girl’ pretending to be a lady.”

Eryndes swallowed, begging her eyes to remain dry, “Done as I was told? As I was told!” she wailed, “My father and brother’s ashes not even cooled and yet I was held up for stock auction to be purchased by the highest bidder! At fifteen!”

Nestdôl’s ’s hatred for her stabbed from his eyes, “Had your mother not sent for Aragorn to rescue you, had you done as asked, opened your damned legs we’d have an heir-”

“How dare you?!” she cried, her hand flying to strike him.

Her hand never found his face. Even for an old man, he was quicker and stronger, holding her painfully by her wrist, “Perhaps the stock auction should recommence,” he pulled her in closer to him, digging his bony fingers into her chin and she whimpered in pain, “only this time, witch, you'll be on your back and learning your place before sundown!”

“Nestdôl!” Holding her son away with one arm, she lunged with the other, trying to pry him off her, “You’re hurting her!”

“Be gone, girl!” he snarled at Amdiel.

“Let her go!” Amdiel pleaded, pulling at his hand. “Let her go!”

Nestdôl released Eryndes’ chin then backhanded Amdiel across her face. With a squeal, she fell to the stone ground, her baby still clutched in her arm.

“Amdiel!” Eryndes tried to get to her fearing the worst. An unforgivable hand gripped her wrist stopped her. 

Amdiel regained her feet, still cradling the boy; she’d used her body to shield her son from the ground. “Aragorn!” 

Nestdôl stopped and looked around. So did Eryndes.

Then she saw him, running towards them and her heart leapt. 

“Strider, come once more to the rescue,” Nestdôl flung his hatred in Aragorn’s direction. “You had your chance; the true masters’ of the Dúnedain will have this wench earning her keep-”

Aragorn wrenched Nestdôl away from her, tearing her away from his hold and stepping between them.

“Eryndes?” Aragorn ordered with his back to her, “Take Amdiel. See to the boy.”

Quickly, Eryndes did as she was told, walking as briskly as her skirt allowed her, linking arms with Amdiel.

Behind her Aragorn calmly spoke to Nestdôl, calmly, but low and gravely, “You’ve done it this time, old man. Do not think your age will save you from my whip!”

“Don’t forget who I am-”

“Who you are? I am Chieftain of the Dúnedain!” 

“More like an orphan from a disgraced house! No one will allow you to punish me.”

Shaking, Eryndes kept her and Amdiel moving but glanced back at them. Aragorn held Nestdôl by his collar, stopping the old man from striking him, “Even if that were true,” Aragorn pulled him even closer to his face, “it wouldn’t stop me. You will be punished, by my word you will. But hear me now, if you ever lay another hand to woman, I will drag you behind my horse until there is nothing left.”

“Come,” Eryndes whispered to Amdiel who was watching the men, “Shh,” Eryndes forced a smile at Brui she didn’t feel as she wiped at her wet face. “I should check him.” Amdiel nodded and gently handed over the wailing boy to her, “Come now, it is over, little one. No need to cry. There there. Shhh.”

“Eryndes?”

Sindar came hastily towards them, the crinkle between his brows lowering as his eyes widened fiercely seeing Amdiel’s bleeding lip. “(You are hurt).” His head whipped around to where Aragorn was dragging Nestdôl away by the back of his collar.

“Master Elf?” she asked carefully, placing a hand upon his arm. She could feel the rock-hard straining of his muscles through the silky tunic and she wondered if Nestdôl was destined to spend his last living moments with a pack of wargs.

“I’m alright, Sindar,” Amdiel said softly, bouncing little Brui trying to settle him.

“Forgive us,” Eryndes said strongly enough to draw the enraged elf’s attention back to them. “We must check him.”

“What of you?” he turned back to them, blinking, his eyes darting between her and Amdiel.

Forcing what she hoped was a reassuring smile, Eryndes let go of him satisfied he wouldn’t be slicing Nestdôl into fish bait. “We will live, Master Elf.”

He step after her, “Will you not allow me to help you?”

She wanted to refuse, but the plea robbed her of the heart to do so. He needed to help, more than the help was needed. She gave in, “Amdiel took a strike to her head and I need to gather medicine. Will you take Brui and guide Amdiel to sit by the fire in the hall?”

Sindar was startled and glanced at Brui in disbelief. But then slowly held out his hands. He obviously knew nothing about holding infants. Carefully she and Amdiel placed the still wailing boy into his hands, training his arm around to cradle Brui. 

Sindar looked anything but comfortable holding the boy, but he nodded to Amdiel and lead her towards the hall with his free arm.

He glanced back at her, and saw her wiping her eyes again. But he didn’t stop. He held the boy like he was made of delicate crystal, Amdiel on his arm and took them inside.

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

Finally alone in the supply cupboard, Eryndes gripped the shelving for balance, tears forcing their way down her face. Sucking air down her throat, she tried to gather herself. Trying valiantly to suppress all the turmoil down, deep, and regain control.

Just the way her mother taught her. Breathing deeply again and again, she slowly began to feel better. Standing tall again, Eryndes wiped the tears from her face. Reaching for a vial, she dabbed cooling gel under her eyes. Given a few seconds, the gel took away the heat and puffiness and returned her face to normal.

Finding the other supplies she needed, Eryndes straightened her dress, patted her hair, and closed the door behind her.

When she came to their chosen fire, she found Amdiel snuggling with her son in an armchair, the boy still crying without pause. Sindar stood beside her chair, arms crossed, eyes watching everything that moved. He looked like a guardsmen, guarding the woman and child from any further harm. 

She set down a full tray upon the table, “Sit, Master Elf,” she coaxed him gently, “There is no more trouble here.”

His eyes narrowed and briefly she was troubled she’d upset him. But he sighed and did as she bid, taking the seat across from her.

“Eryndes?” Amdiel said softly, “I’m so sorry. I should never have brought little Brui to you. I never thought Nestdôl would-”

“Shh,” Eryndes handed her a cup of wine, “Nestdôl’s just a bitter old man.”

“I’ve never seen him violent before. He might’ve hurt Brui,” Amdiel took a sip before pressing a kiss to her son’s brow, “I tried to shield him.”

“You did,” she soothed, trying to work down her own tears. “however I will still need to check him anyway.” She spread a small amount of scented oil over a cloth-

“What is that?”

Eryndes looked up to see Sindar watching her.

“Oil from herbs. It will help ease his fright, calm him.” She handed the cloth to Amdiel who knowingly placed it on the boy’s small chest.

“I find it,” Sindar paused, “astounding one so small makes so loud a noise.”

Despite what just happened, both her and Amdiel giggled softly.

“It’s a good sign,” Amdiel told him, wiping her face with a sniff, “Means he’s strong and healthy.”

Sindar studied Brui with those melted silver eyes. “By your reckoning alone, he will be the strongest and healthiest Dúnedan of all.”

Amdiel laughed again, then grimaced touching her lip, “You mustn’t have spent much time around babies, then?”

Sindar’s head tilted a little to the side, “Indeed not. Never. Before today I never held one so small.” He sobered, “The noise is astounding.”

“You get used to it,” she resettled the boy on her arm, his cries slowly easing and his eyes becoming heavy, “And find it when they don’t cry worries you the most.”

Sindar frowned and glanced at Eryndes.

Eryndes smiled and handed him a cup of wine from the tray, “Children should be full of life, not silent.”

He took the cup, “(Thank you).”

“Nestdôl,” Amdiel said, then looked around them to make sure she’d not be overheard, “Your father would have him strung up by his wrists.”

“Amdiel,” she warned, “Aragorn will see to his punishment.”

“He should be slain.”

Amdiel and Eryndes looked to Sindar in shock. Sindar stared back at them, “In Lasgalen, his conduct would not be tolerated. He would have been put to death. Immediately.”

Amdiel found her voice first, “Have many been executed?”

“None,” he bit out. “Elves do not attack the defenceless, or women and children.”

“Eryndes?” Aragorn came swiftly along the line of tables, “Amdiel? Are either of you hurt? How’s the boy?”

Eryndes watched Sindar as Amdiel answered, “Brui seems unhurt but my husband will demand justice-“

“You have my word Nestdôl will  be dealt with,” Aragorn put his hand on Amdiel’s shoulder and knelt down, “May I see him?”

While Aragorn checked over Brui, Eryndes kept Sindar in her sights. He was yet to glance in his friend’s direction.

“He appears to be fine,” Aragorn assured Amdiel, dabbing his finger into the salve pot and smearing it over her split lip, “But I’d feel more comfortable keeping you both close to the manor overnight.”

“Of course,” Amdiel agreed, taking her son back from him. “Thank you.”

Still kneeling, Aragorn turned to her-

“You need not examine me,” Eryndes quipped, a bout of unease tingling up her spine. From where the feeling came she didn’t know; she only knew she’d have preferred it if Sindar wasn’t there to witness.

Aragorn gave her a patient but stern stare.

“Truly, I am not hurt,” she declared with her best smile, “Unless my pride counts?”

She knew she wasn’t convincing him. Aragorn always knew better of her. He knew her better than anyone did. 

He lightly touched her chin and peered in close-

“Aragorn,” she laughed awkwardly and leant away from his touch, her face growing hot.

He retracted his hand and stood, “As you wish. We will talk about this later.”

Eyes dropping to the floor, Eryndes’ felt her throat thicken. 

“Sindar?” she heard Aragorn ask flatly and her head rose quickly. Across from her, Sindar still didn’t acknowledge him.

“I must speak with you.”

 Eryndes kept quiet, trying to look anywhere but at her brother or his best friend. Whatever their quarrel, calling them fools in private was one thing, but she knew far better than to interfere. 

Finally she couldn’t bare it and raised her eyes to Sindar. The coldness to his silver pools didn’t warm, but he’d finally looked to his friend.

Slowly Sindar placed his wine on the table and gracefully rose to his feet. Without word they walked away.

“What was that about?” Amdiel whispered and Eryndes quickly waved for her to be silent. Aragorn would’ve heard her, and to the elf she might’ve as well shouted.

“Not our business,” Eryndes told her as they watched them go, walking side by side, the air between them stiff with silence.

She only hoped when they returned the rift between them would be healed.

 

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

 

The door to the war-room closed sharply after the last rangers quickly retreated.

“Am I forbidden to beg forgiveness for words spoken last night?”

Legolas didn’t look at him, “What did you say that was not true? I cannot offer Carthal’s salvation. What right do I have to ask you not to encourage her union with another?”

Aragorn stepped towards him-

“But you too are at fault. You cannot even protect your own sister. Were her heart mine, I would not-”

“Yet she is not!” Aragorn looked down, hating his loss of temper. “She is mine to protect.”

Legolas’ squeezed his fists hard against his thighs, “You do not protect her well enough. Today’s happenings are proof enough.”

“Sindar,” Aragorn implored, “Legolas. I am not your father. I cannot do everything. I don’t have eyes and ears all over Middle Earth. I am but one man,” he drew himself tall, “I need help.”

Silence spread between them.

Aragorn sighed, “(Will you help me)?”

Legolas looked over his shoulder, “(Help you)?”

“Yes, help me,” Aragorn said firmly. “Help me protect my people. Help me protect her.”

Legolas turned back away from him, “Do you know what you ask of me?”

“I do. Can you not see I am unable to do this all on my own? How can I protect my people, fight against Angmar and those in Mordor hunting me, and watch over my family? I need you. I need you on my side.”

Legolas whirled around, “I am at your side!” 

“But,” he dared to ask, “are you on my side?”

“You are a fool, Aragorn. When have I ever not been on your side?” Legolas crossed his arms over his chest, “And you are far more capable then you give yourself credit. Within you is the blood of kings. You simply need to believe, have faith in your own strengths-”

“(Brother, help me)?”

Aragorn’s plea hit the mark and Legolas didn’t answer for a long pause. The war room dwelt in stillness until he heard the elf’s long drawn breathe, “(I swear her under my protection, even if it be at the cost of my life).”

Aragorn sighed in relief. Moving to his side, he took his shoulder, “(Thank you).”

“However,” Legolas shook off his hand. “It is with my body and bow I will help your people. I will not sacrifice Lasgalen for them.” He squared his shoulders, “Nor will I protect the Dunedain by encouraging your sister to marry another.”

Aragorn paused, bracing himself knowing he was already on thin ice, “Will you tell me now of your intentions?”

Legolas began to pull away-

Aragorn didn’t let go and followed him, “Please. Tell me, what would you do if you had her heart?”

Legolas didn’t look at him, “What do you think I would do?” 

Aragon took his other shoulder as well, making him meet his eyes, “Then do it.”

Legolas’ confusion was clear on his face.

Aragorn slowly smiled and squeezed his hold on him, “If you are determined, regardless of your title, your father, and knowing what it would mean for your immortality, I give my consent to court and seek her hand.”

Legolas gaped at him. Then he raised his chin and snorted in arrogance, “Why should I need your consent-?”

“You don’t,” his heart swelled against his ribs, “But you have it anyway. Who better could I ever have wished for my own sister? I dearly love you both.”

Legolas stared at him at length, the slightest tinge of colour touching the tops of his cheeks, all of the arrogant facade diminishing quickly. Then reaching up, Legolas took Aragorn by the back of his head, his thumb against his jaw. 

It was rare for Legolas to openly show affection this way but Aragorn bashfully held his gaze. Although Legolas was a hard elf, made hard by battle and grief, Aragorn knew he loved him. Despite the words said the night before, he’d never have wavered in his faith in Aragorn.

Not ever.

Unable to contain it any longer, Aragorn pulled his brother into his arms. 

Legolas sighed loudly but then reluctantly fully returned the embrace. It must have been only the third time in sixty years he had done so.

“(Carthal is in a mess),” Legolas said finally. “(You must act).”

Aragorn nodded against him, “I know. I have a new plan.” 

“Indeed?”

Aragorn pulled back, “I’ll start by righting a wrong that started three weeks ago.”

“Which particular one did you have in mind?”

Aragorn scoffed and pushed him half-hearted away. Then stifling his grin, he lifted his head towards the war-room door, “Baradon!”

When the door didn’t open, Aragorn shouted even louder, “Baradon! Now, ranger!”

Baradon came racing through the door and came to stop in sharp attention front of Aragorn, “Strider?”

Releasing a small sigh, Aragorn bowed his head, “You have been wronged and I have done naught to stop it. I’ve failed you. I ask for your forgiveness and I hope my next action will be a step forward in making amends to you.”

Baradon stared wide-eyed, “My lord, you have never failed me-”

“I am rescinding the masters’ ruling,” Aragorn spoke over him, “If you still wish to marry Celegeth, you have my most sincere best wishes, and my permission.”

Baradon struggled for words, and then a tentative smile grew, “Truly?”

Aragorn smiled at him and took the young man’s shoulder warmly, “Truly. Go to Eryndes with a date, and have her commence preparations immediately.” When Baradon hesitated, Aragorn slapped his arm, “Unless you wish to wait until after winter?”

“No. No I don’t want to wait!” Baradon confirmed firmly and then threw himself at Aragorn.

Aragorn laughed and patted his young ranger on the back, “That’s enough. Come, don’t you have a young maiden to speak too? I’m sure she’d like to hear this news.”

Baradon slowly released him with a smile broader and happier than he’d ever seen him, “Thank you, Strider!”

“You’re welcome. Now go.”

Legolas should’ve seen him coming, but he just wasn’t used to men trying to hug him. Only Aragorn ever dared to embrace the haughty elf. Aragorn chuckled when Baradon slammed into him, with more force and a fiercer hold than Aragorn’s, so much he was forced to take a step back. “Baradon,” Legolas growled, “Get off me.”

Baradon pulled back with a sly grin, “Sorry, Sindar.”

Legolas shook his head but was unable to smother his smile and waved him gone, “Away with you.”

Baradon shot away, beaming from cheek to cheek, and running straight for the door.

“(Nicely done).”

Aragorn turned to him happily, “Young love, what a wondrous affliction.”

“As opposed to old love?”

Laughing, Aragorn coaxed him to follow, “Perhaps I should’ve said new love. Let’s find a plate of something while we wait for the masters’ outrage over what I’ve just done. My guess we will not have to wait long.”

“Meaning?”

“The masters’, Romon in particular, will not like this. When they come, and they will, they will demand all domestic decisions be directed to them.”

 “Are you planning to dissolve the masters’ council after-all?”

“Their influence may indeed be great,” Aragorn met his eyes with a curt nod, “but so is mine. This is a fight they will not win. Carthal will be once more reside under a Carthal. Not bitter old men.”

Legolas studied him for a good moment. “Even after sixty years, you never fail to surprise me.”

“You disapprove?”

“Of course not,” Legolas  snickered, “It is high time you started acting like a king.”

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

With a stack of Sali’s fresh-from-of-the-oven scones, butter and a fresh pot of mulberry jam, they arrived back in the war-room to find Faron waiting for them.

“News travels fast,” Faron greeted them, eyeing the food. “Another Dúnedain wedding feast to look forward too.”

“If you have come to express some disgruntlement Faron, save it,” Aragorn released the cloth bundle of scones on the table.

Faron kicked back in his chair, “Why should I care about Baradon coming nuptials? Or Nestdol’s comeuppance? I voted against him remember?

“So you came to watch the show? Or is it you have no duty?”

Gleaming, Faron held out a paper to him. Looking up in surprise, he shook his head, “We cannot send out hunting parties now.”

Faron stood and gestured to the map-table, “The herds were late, but so is the weather. What we have now is a window of opportunity.”

“The weather is not to be trusted,” Aragorn sat down heavily, fearing he was in for another argument, “You know that.”

“If we're going to hosting extra mouths this winter, we’ll need to increase our yield.”

“But to the west? There's not so much as a scrawny buck-” Aragorn trailed off seeing Faron shift his hand away from the desert wastes to further west. “That’s a three week journey.”

“Give me a few wagon teams,” Faron pointed to the paper in Aragorn’s hand, “and those six hunters and I'll come back with enough to feed everyone twice over. “

Aragorn looked like he was going to agree but then shook his head, “Faron, you're needed here.”

When Faron opened his mouth, Aragorn continued firmly, “You are needed here. If I am to go south, Bear and Sindar will need all the best rangers here. You know what lies in Angmar.”

Faron glanced from Aragorn to Legolas, his jaw rigid, “As you wish, Strider-”

The double doors to the war-room burst open-

“Faron! Leave us!”

Upon Aragorn’s nod, Faron headed obediently for the door.

“Faron,” Aragorn called after him, “we will speak more of this,” he indicated the paper. “You're needed here but we'll discuss alternatives.”

He bowed his head, “My lord.”

As soon as the door closed, Romon pounced, “How dare you countermine the decision of the masters’!”

Aragorn calmly stood, “After Nestdôl’s actions earlier, I find your presence here a little presumptuous-”

“I am an elder master of Carthal-!”

“And I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn!” 

Romon paused, looking from him to Legolas then back again. “You have never wielded your authority as you should, that is why it has fallen to the masters-”

“No longer,” Aragorn stated simply. “I am taking back my rightful place.”

Romon pointed at Aragorn’s face, “No one will follow the likes of you. The families know who the true leaders of Carthal are-”

“You mean you and Nestdôl have bullied the families into following your every order? That too stops now.” With a speed unlike most men, Aragorn brushed away the offending finger, “Romon, you are removed from the council of masters’-”

“You cannot!”

Aragorn smiled down at the aged man, “I can and I have. From now on, power in Carthal rests once more upon a Carthal. How much authority the rest of the masters’ possess hereafter will rest with her.”

“A woman?” Romon laughed. “None would follow a silly girl!”

“Romon,” Aragorn nodded towards the door, “You may go. Live out your final years in peace.”

“You will live to regret this!”

“Leave us,” Aragorn repeated, “Now.”

Romon glared but offered no further argument and stormed off out of the room as angrily as his old legs could bare him.

Aragorn took a long, deep sigh. When Legolas remained silent, he looked back at him.

Legolas reached up to touch his shoulder and swept his hand down, “Hail, lord Aragorn.”

Uncertainty ebbed at him but he returned the gesture regardless, “Only when I have you by my side.”

Legolas scoffed, picking up a scone and buttered it, “You have it within you to be a great king, Aragorn, so much more than I could ever hope to be. One day, you will finally realise and accept it. And when that day comes, you will no longer need me.”

“May such a dark day never arise,” Aragorn quietly prayed. With a start, he headed for the door, “I think I should inform Eryndes of what I’ve done before word spreads.” When he saw he alone went through the door, he grinned back at Legolas, “I thought you were on my side?”

A dark brow rose on pale skin.

“Well,” he pressed, gesturing out the door.

Legolas made him wait until his scone was thoroughly covered with jam before joining him. “You did not forewarn Eryndes of your plan?”

Aragorn shrugged, “She will do her duty.” 

They walked down the hallway and down the first set of stairs. Aragorn chose that moment to breach a topic that had been playing on his mind ever since Nestdol’s accusation weeks earlier. “With the dangers of politics and posturing, to be friends with an ally . . . one cannot help but feel the need for caution. Perhaps now more than ever I see why you chose to unite us in kinship.”

“Nothing so cunning,” Legolas answered quietly. “Do not lather appraisal where none belongs. My desire to take you as brother was more the longing for a sibling than harmony between allies. Besides, I was convinced your ears would take greater heed were the words of disapproval not to come from a friend but a brother.”

Aragorn grinned widely, “I didn’t have much choice but to listen after you dragged me out of that tavern.” 

Legolas shook his head slowly, “And my father considers ‘you’ the sensible one.”

Aragorn came to a stop halfway down the second staircase, an idea forming in his head.

“What is wrong?”

Aragorn started back up the stairs, “Will you wait for me?”

At his nod, Aragorn spirited up the stairs. 

Not three minutes later, he came running back down, “Let’s go.”

“Now what are you planning?”

“Your presence here pays homage to our brothership. This is something I have been remiss in and perhaps finally I can make amends.”

“What are you talking about?”

Aragorn directed him to look over where Eryndes was sitting quietly over by the tables.

“A moment, please?”

With a curious eye, Legolas nodded and stood back, “By all means.”

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

“A moment, please?” Eryndes heard Aragorn bid quietly. She looked up to see him leaving Sindar and coming towards her.

When he knelt down beside her chair, she smiled at him, “I am fine. Truly. You do not need to keep checking on me.”

“Are you?”

His question cracked momentarily at her reserve, but she nodded, “It is nothing I have not heard before.” She touched her wrist absentmindedly, “Felt before.”

Aragorn was silent, his keen eyes searching hers. He knew her too well. But instead of probing further into her emotional stability, he took her hand in his and examined her wrist, “I have removed Romon from his position.”

Eryndes gasped, “You cannot-”

“I can and I have.”

“But he holds support with many of the families.”

Aragorn was silent for a moment, slowly turning her hand to check for damage. “I am entitled to give and take as I see fit,” he finally said, “Nestdôl is a poisonous man and so is Romon. I should have done this years ago. That goes for the council of masters.”

“But who will-”

“You.”

Eryndes stared at him, “No, not I-”

“You will obey me,” he commanded firmly, “You will cut your duties and take over as mistress.”

“No one will accept this. A woman?” she whispered. “The people, they will be angry.”

Aragorn placed her hand back on the table then stood, “They will accept because I say it to be so. You are my sister and it’s time you behaved as such. No more scrubbing floors or working in the fields. You were raised for this duty. It is your birthright.”

She stammered, “But what am I to do?”

“Heal the sick, make medicines, order people around . . . ” A stunning smile filled his face and he produced a small wooden box no bigger than her fist from his pocket, “Wear pretty things.”

Eryndes stared at the box, ornately carved with decorations of leaves and vines. “Aragorn,” she breathed, torn between her desperate need to look inside, and feeling sick. They had no money for luxurious trinkets.

“Open it.”

Unable to contain herself she did and then was left breathless. It was a necklace of silver with a breathtakingly beautiful jewel. “Aragorn, y-you cannot.”

“Give a gift to my sister?” he took it from the box and released the clasp, “Pull back your hair.”

“No, Aragorn,” she begged. Eru knew how much something so beautiful must have cost him. But then, what money did they have? 

“It was a gift,” he pulled her hair out of the way for her, “A token of thanks for a favour and homage to friendship.”

Her heart raced when the delicate silver chain touched her skin, “I cannot-”

“Hush,” he released it after securing the clasp, “I was waiting for your birthday next month but I want you to wear it now. It was a gift from King Thranduil.”

Eryndes’ jaw dropped and she struggled to find her voice, “F-from King Thranduil? It is elvish made?”

Aragorn nodded, “I helped his son chase down a creature, a menace. King Thranduil was grateful for my continued aid over the years and gifted me one of the white stones of Lasgalen, a symbol of our lasting friendship.”

Eryndes went to take off the necklace, “Then you should be the one to wear it-”

Aragorn stopped her, taking her fingers away and holding her hands, “It is a lady’s jewel. And I am proud to finally give you something worthy of a brother.” He kissed the back of her hand, “Now, do as I say. Take up your mother’s place as Mistress of Carthal and promise me you will never take it off.”

Freeing a hand from him, she touched it just to prove it was real, “I promise.”

Aragorn kissed her forehand, “Don’t I get a thank you?”

Eryndes laughed and threw her arms around his neck, “Thank you.”

He coaxed her to her feet, “I want to you be a lady.”

“Only a king-”

“Am I not? And are you not my sister?” he reproached gently, “To me, to our people you are and I am a lord. And you worthy enough for any king.”

Eryndes blinked, not sure she’d heard him, “Marry a king?” She laughed awkwardly, “Aragorn, please.”

“A brother has not the right to think only a king worthy of his sister?”

“I don’t know what to think.”

“I have been remiss, as your brother.”

“Aragorn, never. And we are not blood-”

“If I were to fall in battle? Should I not now set things right?”

Eryndes felt her heart stop. “Aragorn you are scaring me.”

“I do not plan to fall,” he soothed, “But recently I have had my eyes opened to all the wrongs I have let lie. I won’t have it anymore. I want you to be as you were meant to be, a Lady of Carthal, tending the sick, leading her people, not wallowing in the mud.”

Her jaw dropped, “I do not wallow in mud!”

He smiled knowing, “Tonight I will address the people. I want music. I want singing. I want dancing and for you to dress well. As Mistress you will announce the betrothal of Baradon and Celegeth then afterwards you will swear publically the oath of Carthal’s allegiance to the line of kings and continued devotion to its people.”

Eryndes swallowed, “You want me to swear an oath?”

Aragorn touched her chin, “Yes. I will swear you and I are bound in kinship. It won't give due ladyship in the eyes of southerners or those in Gondor, but you'll be so recognised here. Also, it's up to you,” his eyes flicked behind him, “you might want to acknowledge our alliance with Thranduil and with Sindar. He is my brother.”

“Am I to swear him brother too-”

“No!” he cut her off with a laugh, “No, indeed you must never. To do so would lead to folk to wonder about my true motives. Acknowledging the alliance is polite but he is my brother but not yours.”

“But why?”

“You must never think of him as your brother. It's . . . an elf thing.”

She easily accepted for there were so many ‘elf-things’ to account for with Sindar. 

A random thought left her stricken, “If you do this, does this mean you plan to go south to Gondor and take your place-”

“It doesn't,” he rejected firmly. “I have no wish to be king. But I will wield what little power I have to keep my people together and fiends like Nestdôl from destroying my people.

“Now,” Aragorn guided her away from the table, “you have much to do. Have all available Dúnedain gather and begin preparations at once.”

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

“You did not tell her.”

Aragorn tucked a spare cloth into his pack. The afternoon was fading and they were in his room on level three, packing for Aragorn’s ride south to find Gell and his rangers. “I shall but later tonight. She has much to do before then.”

“My father charged me bring you his gift to symbolise the friendship of our two families.”

Aragorn shrugged, “Eryndes is my family and looks far prettier on her than I.”

“I thought you were going to gift it to Arwen?”

“I was and yet,” his heart warmed picturing the in insurmountable beauty of his love, “Arwen lives in a fine house, has many fine clothes and jewels . . . And what of those things has my sister?”

“You misunderstand. I do not complain,” Legolas told him, sitting at the end of the bed, not really helping him pack at all. “I certainly approve seeing Eryndes adorned in the gems of my people. Though perhaps a circlet in the style of my family’s crest might be better-”

“It might,” Aragorn walked away to his side table, taking his spare tobacco pouch and pipe, “I may wish your designs on my sister success with all of my heart, but I must remind you there is much ground to be covered before adorning her in the banners of Lasgalen.”

“I am aware.”

He glanced over at him, then laughed, “You are truly ill with women-”

“(I know this also)!” he snapped.

He laughed again, “And you have vile temper.”

Legolas looked away from him with the stern set to his jaw.

“Melloneg,” Aragorn said fondly, coming up beside him, “You are the very best of souls and truly wise, but there’s a lot you hide behind a shield of haughty vanity and anger. To truly love someone, to let them love you, you’ll have to let go of the shield. You must let her see who you are underneath.”

His friend remained turned away but he felt the doubt in his hesitation, “What if she does not . . . like what is underneath?”

“No one can love one half of someone,” He advised gently, “To love is to love wholly. That’s what makes love so wonderful; it has the power to forgive even the worst of flaws.”

Legolas’ answer was a huff.

“Would you welcome my advice?”

Legolas’ eyes narrowed but then with a sigh waved his hand, “What is this advice?”

He paused to choose his words carefully, “Do not seek out her consent for courtship now. You must wait.”

“Wait?” Legolas’ face furrowed, “I am determined. How is waiting at all honourable?”

Aragorn sat down heavily beside him on the bed. “I know my sister, melloneg. Think of her like a sapling; put some weight on her and she will bend, put too much too soon and she’ll snap. What you offer is not easy for one so . . . sheltered. Your race and culture so foreign and more than that your father is the king of elves. You command your own army. You’re almost three thousand years old, and will never age. She will age-”

“I have told you I am prepared to accept the price of mortality-”

“But is she?” Aragorn asked sympathetically. “Trust me, to allow the one you love to give up their immortality . . . it is not . . . an easy thing to do.”

Legolas turned from him, brooding. “How long must I wait?”

“Until she no longer looks at you and sees an elf.” Aragorn shook his head, “When you can be certain her regard is stout enough to accept the fate of the life you’re offering.”

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

“Have you been waiting long? I am so sorry-”

“Nay,” Legolas gently stopped her, pulling himself out of his memories. He rose from the stone. “I was early. Shall we?”

Eryndes came to his side, “Alas I am in a terrible mood tonight and not much company-”

“Nonsense,” he soothed, “The night air will refresh you.”

Upon her continued reluctance, his brow rose, “Shall I mention how I have waited an entire month for our walk?”

She grimaced, “Has it really been so long?”

“Indeed. How fortunate I am patient,” he admonished wryly. “Now, what is to cause your ill mood?”

“Oh!” her face soured further, which only served to intensify the light in her eyes and the pout to her lips, “ever since the masters were removed, they have been trying to cause trouble-” She trailed off with a shake of her head, “Surely, you do not wish to hear about it.”

“Why should I not?” he smiled at her and gestured along the wall, “Come, what trouble have the dissolved masters caused?”

“They are coaxing families to hold their stores, refusing to get the necessary percentage to Carthal.”

“No doubt pending their reinstatement?”

“Just so.”

“Did not all the families renew their pledge to the line of kings and to Carthal last night?”

“Aye after I made the oath; it was expected of them.”

Legolas shrugged, “Then they cannot withhold their due.”

Eryndes nodded empathically, “So I have dozens of families pounding on Carthal’s doors, demanding I stop the dissent. They grow weary of the infighting, especially seeing Aragorn’s gone south once more.”

He stopped to allow a ranger past, then took her hand and wrapped it around his arm, “What did you do?”

She scoffed, “I met with all of the masters and mistresses. The elder masters acknowledge the removal of Nestdôl and Romon was necessary, but claim their own dismissal unwise. They do not believe one can rule.”

“The kings of the world may disagree.”

“Kings are not women.”

He watched her in the darkness, the flames from the touches along the wall lightening her dark hair and reflecting off her eyes. The sounds of the night, creatures, insects and rangers at duty filled the space between them as he regarded her. A slow smile touched the corners of his mouth. “The Dúnedain have a king. And now Carthal, a mistress.”

She turned her solemn gaze upon him, question burning upon her lips.

He allowed his smile to linger and said softly, “I have no doubt you will do fine.”

Her lips parted in surprise and even in the dark, his elf eyes saw the blush tinting her cheeks.

A rare self-conscious feeling quivered through him and he turned back to their path along the wall. “So, how did you deal with them, the masters?” 

“After a great debate, we came to an arrangement.”

“Good.”

“Might have been easier with an iron skillet.”

Legolas held back a laugh and said dryly, “Too heavy. Try a fire iron.”

Her answering laugh lit up the night in a way no fire could ever hope.

 


	18. Love and War (Part One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> * Thanks to all who reviewed, favoured, liked and kudos.
> 
> ** Thank you to Frannel. But also thanks to your kids!
> 
> *** I don't usually like posting part one without the part two, but I'm itching to get on with things. So here's part one.
> 
> **** Don't think there's anything to warn about.

 

* * *

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

Aglarebon – Woodland Stallion, Sindar's horse

Aragorn/Strider – Male, Chieftain of the Dúnedain

Baradon/Sculls – Male, Elite Ranger Scout

Bregol/Web - Male, Ranger

Camaenor/Vice - Male, Master of Arms

Cordoves/Swan – Female, Elite Ranger Scout

Eryndes – Female, Mistress of Carthal & Apothecary

Faron/Dusk – Male, Hunting Master & Elite Ranger Scout

Foruyndes – Female, Mistress of Stores

Gueniel – Female, Midwife

Laeron/Wren – Male, Elite Ranger Scout

Lobordir/Joust – Male, Master of Stables & Elite Ranger Scout

Mydedis – Female, Mistress of Housekeeping

Mereniel/Ivy – Female, Elite Ranger Scout (Pregnant)

Sali – Female, Mistress of Kitchen

Sindar/Master Elf /Legolas – Sinda Male, undisclosed Prince of the Woodland Realm on unofficial secondment

Trîw/Jester – Male, Elite Ranger Scout

Úrion/Bear – Male, Second in Command

* * *

They were outnumbered. There was no escape.

With a fierce smirk, Legolas advanced. Raising one blood stained blade towards the sky, he called forth the second wave.

Rangers emerged, slinking from ground, rock and tree like shadows, their clean blades glistering in the moonlight. As one they strode forth to join their kin on the field of battle.

The orcs with presence of mind roared out into the darkness in futility as the second wave of rangers continued to advance.

The orcs bore no backup to call upon. Still ninety odd still standing, they were surrounded at all sides and caught completely unaware.

"An elf eagerly slaughtering life?" a good-natured jab rose above the roars and war cries of the combined two hundred plus warriors set to kill each other.

"Life? They are not life," Legolas spat, chancing a glance at his friend before scanning the orcs futile charge to pick out his next target. "But what they are I was created to destroy."

Wiping his brow, Úrion tossed his axe from hand to hand, black drops flying off the half-moon shaped blade, "Just leave a few for me. This old man's got another five hundred orcs to his name before he's done."

Legolas didn't answer. Coming to within acceptable distance from his chosen target, an orc wielding a rusty scimitar, he threw wide the gates within and willingly gave himself over to hatred.

Block, block, block, strike-strike. His opponent dropped to the twig and gravel covered ground; dead. Selecting another, taller and broader, he advanced. Block, strike. Dead. Most times bigger meant cocky and this orc paid for it with his life.

Sharp and efficient; Legolas was an ages old weapon of destruction and he and the company of Dúnedain Rangers tore down their enemy without mercy.

* * *

"All bodies are gathered, father."

Úrion and Legolas stood together as triumphant commanders often did; conversing quietly over their victory while their troops finished the clean-up. The dawn was almost upon the border lands, not three miles the other side of the river into the south of Angmar. The first few birds sung sleepily into the air their delight in the death of the orcs. Dozens of Dúnedain torches lit up the morning.

Úrion studied his youngest son with a critical eye, "Best set fire to them then. No need to be loitering about."

"Yes, father," Laeron gave a sharp nod and went to comply-

"Is that your blood?"

Laeron stopped mid stride. "It is just a scratch."

"Show me."

Laeron's face pained and his eyes looked around, "I swear, it is naught but a cut."

Úrion grabbed the boy, who almost stood as tall though not as broad by half, and held him still to peer at the top of the trail of blood going down his neck.

"Faattherr," Laeron's face now was turning red, his eyes turning pleadingly to Legolas for help. When Legolas offered no help, he returned to his father. "Please. Everyone is watching."

Legolas bit back a laugh. Úrion didn't care for his son's embarrassment and continued to examine the wound in Laeron's dark hair. Once more he could see much of his younger self in the youth. A father, elf or human, sought never to relinquish 'fathering' their sons.

"It will need to be sown-"

"Father, please. I will see the healers upon our return to camp-"

"How did it happen? Did you get distracted? Being cocky again . . .?"

Legolas covered his chuckle and walked away to leave poor Laeron to his father's scrutiny. He checked the wounded rangers were set upon horses, no less than five and none in danger, then took a spare torch from Trîw and they set fire to the orcs.

The battle came to a swift end. The orcs languished in this particular valley across the river for weeks. Carthal's scouts discovered them six days ago. At once, Úrion and Legolas gathered a company of rangers and rode out to destroy them.

They found them bellies full and resting, such was the arrogance of the orc in the north. The hundred rangers he and Úrion lead into battle was overkill. Without exaggeration, the orcs could've been taken down by a ranger force one third their number.

But what were they doing here? None of the captives they'd taken knew their purpose, no matter what torture they were threatened.

Perhaps the enemy was learning?

Walking to Aglarebon, he gave him a long stroke along his flank before climbing into the saddle. There was no strategic significance to the spot; the only fresh water available was a small stream coming down from the complex of mountains and streams to the south. No rivers for craft. No higher ground. The orcs had not even set up a proper encampment.

To his side, Laeron came up on his mare, an unsavoury tint upon his youthful good looks.

Legolas cleared the acidic smoke from the back of his throat.

"I know," Laeron said quietly. "He loves me."

He didn't answer and kept his eyes straight ahead, amusement bound tightly within his chest.

An exasperated sigh hit his ears. "But might he not contain it a little more in public?"

"And lessen the enjoyment of your discomfort?"

He heard the cluck of an annoyed tongue, "Your father and mine would surely have a ripping time were they ever to meet."

Finally looking at the young man, he allowed his smile to grow, "Of that I have little doubt."

Laeron shared his smile in kindred spirit.

"Sindar," Úrion rode briskly over, "The rangers are ready and our scouts signaled the path clear."

Keeping the smile, Legolas gave a quick nod, "Shall we depart?"

Úrion was already raising his arm to wave the Dúnedain home, "Rangers, move out!"

* * *

"Focus."

The flurry strikes continued.

"Faster."

Their strikes increased in speed.

Legolas ambled around the six paired scouts. The other half of his unit were watching from the grass. The day was coming to a swift end, the sun lowering over the foothills and the trees and shrubs filled with birdsong. "Your accuracy is suffering," he told them testily, "Half an inch will be the difference between killing and wounding."

Having slaughtered the orcs two days to the east, the legion of rangers was still another day from the Great North Road and Carthal. Úrion pulled them up to make camp in the shadow and shelter of the southern range, a haven of clear, clean streams, thick grassy meadows and surrounded by open canopied forests. Within the safer lands to the west, their guards well placed, the camp was idyllic.

However, Legolas was not going to allow his scouts to rest. The battle may have been easily won, but only a fool didn't remain prepared.

Besides, he was in the worst kind of restless mood for which he could only account for by his own growing weariness.

As he neared Dagnir, the ranger's focus increased, his teeth clenching, beads of sweat growing on his forehead.

"Faster," Legolas ordered. "Dig deep." He moved to the next pair, walking around Sirdhem to watch. "You have speed, Orthellon, but do you have stamina?"

The quiet, reserved ranger glanced at him-

"Eyes to your task!" Legolas barked.

Orthellon snapped back, continuing even faster than before.

"By my count not four minutes have passed," He watched Cordoves and Lobordir exchange blows, "Gifting your younger brother with an easy victory, Swan?"

Joust's playful smirk lifted his lips and Cordoves growled, her strikes gaining speed and ferocity.

It was short lived however and each of the pairs depleted their remaining strength in seconds.

"Halt," Legolas called. Half of the elite scout troop gratefully stood down and he addressed them collectively. "You have proved your resilience. Two days without sleep since a successful battle engagement and you have kept up with the rest of the rangers. But to what end? What is succeeding to the next camp if you cannot defend yourself upon arrival? Within four minutes each of you lost accuracy and strength."

The elite troop stood silent.

His brow rose, "Second half, into position. See if you can improve on four minutes. Faron? You will pair with me."

Surprise lit their faces. Except for Faron, though, who bared his teeth in a hideous grin. "You haven't slept either, Sindar; six days now by my count." Faron clucked his tongue, "Careful. Don't want to mess up that pretty face. 'Again'."

"Be silent," he moved into position, resolved not to allow Faron to antagonise him anymore. It wasn't surprising Faron knew how long he'd gone without sleep; the man was as observant as he was cunning. "Begin," he ordered. As expected Faron started off strong, each of their hits on target and blocked, blow for blow. This type of exercise was not about fighting or hitting the opponent but about speed, stamina and accuracy.

As the time clicked over, it became apparent all of the pairs had stopped and all his troop were now watching him and Faron.

With his lip curling, Legolas stepped back from Faron and held up his hand. Both he and Faron looked at the rangers, Faron chuckling.

Faron might think it amusing, but Legolas did not. "(Do I have rangers under my command or a bunch of filthy Dwarves)?!"

His snarl was met with bashful guilt, smiles and even laughter.

"What did he say?" Trîw whispered none to quietly to those around him.

"Feet and elbows to the ground," he turned back to Faron, "If you all are so fond of watching, you may watch holding brace until Faron and I stop."

Groans came from them but his order was followed. He was pushing them hard. His mood was off and they weren't elves. But to his way of thinking, the harder he trained them, pushed them, the more likely they would survive the worst evil could throw at them.

Besides, they were rangers of the Dúnedain. Legend and feared. Complain with groans they might but none so far had shown the slightest discontent or frailty.

None had taken his offer to surrender their spot in the unit and return to normal duty.

Four minutes later and twelve rangers shook with effort in their brace positions while Legolas and Faron continued to test each other's stamina. Faron was only just beginning to struggle.

"Sindar," Lobordir strained from his position on the grass, "As your friend, I must warn you I plan on poisoning your canteen-"

"Silence," Legolas snapped. The constant intensity of his strikes and blocks was starting to burn in his arms and shoulders. "Waste not your energy on speaking."

Five minutes . . .

Faron's punches were starting to lose accuracy and his blocks getting sluggish. Some of the rangers began to show their imminent collapse.

"Focus," he muttered to Faron.

Faron's smug confidence was gone and now replaced by one of extreme concentration. Days without proper sleep, each day being subjected to long days of hard riding and exercises to start and close each day; Legolas was begrudgingly impressed by Faron's endurance.

"Mist! The mist has returned!"

"What evil is this?"

Faron looked towards the shouting-

And Legolas' fist connected with his face.

"Oww, Sindar!"

Legolas stepped around Faron nursing his chin, "You are too easily distracted."

"To arms!"

Faron pointed back at the ranger camp, "Is that not ample distraction?"

Around them the troop of elite rangers were on their feet and looking alarmed towards the camp.

"Come," Legolas directed them sweeping down to retrieve his weapons, and together they ran the six hundred metres through the thick, spongy grass back to their fellows.

Getting there they found the ranger camp shrouded in mist . . . but only the ranger camp. The mist kept to the boundaries, neither moving with the gentle breeze of lifting to the hot afternoon sun.

"What madness!" Lobordir cried, his eyes wide just like all the other of their troop.

Legolas squinted through the mist, his sight shifting, penetrating, searching. "The mist is not dangerous."

"Are you certain?"

At Legolas' nod, Lobordir squared his shoulders. "The rangers won't know that."

Legolas at once addressed his troop, "Get in there and bring calm! Laeron? Find your father and have him start bringing the rangers out into the clear air."

Some of them looked stunned, fear etching quickly upon their faces. With their sordid history with dark Numenoreans, if there was one thing all Dúnedain feared it was unexplained magics.

Was this the renegade's mission; to prey upon their great fear?

"Come," Lobordir ordered firmly, "Sindar says it's safe. Follow his order!"

Faron and Cordoves were the first to move, followed by Baradon dragging a still stunned Laeron with him. Then as if a landslide, the rest followed, quickly, the ingrained fear at once switching to resolve and obedience.

Stopping Lobordir with a glance, Legolas pointed towards the makeshift corral made mad by a hundred frightened horses, "Joust. See to the horses before they break their bonds."

Lobordir didn't move, his clever eyes knowing. "Where are you going?"

"To see to this spellcaster," he marched off in the direction of the overlooking hills. "I will deal with this nuisance!"

"Alone?" Lobordir tried to follow him. "Sindar, he might be dangerous!"

"I can see through illusions," he assured him briskly.

But his friend stood firm, "Trîw will see to the horses. I won't let you go alone."

It would've been easy to order him to remain. He could've detailed the dozens of times he'd waltz into danger alone for three thousand years. "Very well," he conceded reluctantly, and perhaps a little touched. He adjusted the buckling straps of his quiver tighter around his chest. "We go stealthily. Remember not to trust your eyes."

Lobordir nodded and sheathed his long sword. "Then I shall track while you survey."

It took them ten minutes of careful climbing through the thick underbrush to reach the hill's sloping apex and the hidden complex of caves.

Both he and Lobordir kept their footfalls silent and their awareness sharp. There was no alert to the air; all manner of life twittered and chirped contently in the dwindling late afternoon light.

A soft click of a tongue called Legolas' attention. Lobordir pinched his thumb and fore finger together then sharply pointed behind them.

Holding his crouch steady, Legolas glanced behind him.

From their vantage point halfway up the hill they could clearly see the mist over the rangers' encampment was no more. Not a trace lingered. The enchantment was lifted. The company of rangers and their horses were by rallied and held in a soundly defensive position.

Legolas would've expected no less from a worthy commander like Úrion. But the questions remained; what was the spellcaster's intent? Had their approach been spotted and the quarry fled?

Returning to Lobordir, he gave a single nod then gestured to move forward. Keeping low they made their way further up the hill and soon could see the mouth to one of the caves. Legolas signaled they were clear to cross the deer path just before the mouth of the cave.

Lobordir held a close study of the ground, Legolas to their surrounds, moving along the path from one cave to the other.

Finally at the smaller of the caves, Lobordir got his attention once more and pointed at the ground.

The disturbance in the leaves and twigs was very faint. Lobordir took a moment, his eyes reading the ground like a novel. With a nod, the ranger gestured into the cave and continued to speak through his hands;

_One. Slight and short. Came from cave. Retreated along the path, in haste yet maintaining cover._

Legolas acknowledged. _Slow_.

They traced the spellcaster's footfalls around the side of the hill, over the rocky pass and descending through a mossy, fern packed gully. Moving through without sound, the creatures who called the gully home watched with curiosity without alarm.

Then the tracks lead down into the babbling stream.

"Even the Dúnedain can't track through water," Lobordir muttered quietly.

Unwilling to give up, Legolas continued to search the other bank of the stream, even though it was fairly clear the spellcaster escaped via the steam. Perhaps whomever this person was preordained this as the only way to lose his tail . . .

This spellcaster chose his layer well.

"We can follow the stream down."

With a frustrated sigh, Legolas glared at the water as if it were to blame, "We should check the cave. We are half a day from where the caravan was attacked by the marauders. Perhaps the Dúnedain have stumbled upon the grounds protected by this . . . individual." He looked back at Lobordir, "How slight?"

Lobordir shrugged, "He was no Dúnedain. Short like a southerner and scrawnier than Faron."

"A youth?"

He considered briefly, "Possibly. Or a lost man living off moss and the occasional rabbit. A criminal in hiding even?"

"A southern criminal this far north?"

Lobordir crouched to inspect the muddy bank once more, "Stranger things have happened. More and more sightings of strange folk and eastern creatures have been spoken of-"

"Gossip and rumour proliferated by drink?"

"The north is vast," Lobordir chuckled and rose. "Who can tell what the troubles in the east will send our way?"

Legolas remembered some of the creatures he'd spotted pulling carts in Angmar. He shook his head more than a little irked. "So far all he has done is conjured mist." He waved his friend back the way they'd come, "We will check the caves then return to the others. If this spellcaster is truly worth our time, he will have to prove himself worthy of our notice."

In one of the caves they did indeed find evidence of someone living there, if only for a few days. A crude bed of dried grasses, leaves, twigs and moss. Fire left to die. Bones of fish and other small creatures. Wood kept dry out of the weather. There was no personal affects of any sort; nothing to suggest the identity of the spellcaster.

"He might not cover his tracks well enough for a Dúnedain to fail discover his measure, but he can't be faulted for leaving us any other clues."

Frustrated and annoyed, Legolas shot out of the cave leaving Lobordir to follow in his wake.

"Sindar?"

He whirled on his friend, "(Do we not have more important matters to mind than a wildman with one or two magic tricks)?!"

Lobordir laughed suddenly, "Do you realise you switch languages when you're angry?"

Legolas's mouth opened to retaliate, but outrage slowly dissolved into disbelief . . . "I do?"

His friend laughed again, "All the time. Listen, Strider wants the spellcaster dealt with, take away the unknown variable so to speak. But that doesn't mean now. Once we're home and slept off the torture you've been putting us through, we'll come back and hunt him down." Moving passed him in the direction of the ranger camp, he gave him a slap on his shoulder. "He'll be begging at your feet and wishing the orcs found him instead."

With a long drawn breath and following sigh, Legolas took one last look at the caves then went to follow Lobordir back to camp-

"What is wrong?" Legolas frowned, coming up to his friend's side. Lobordir was staring intently . . . out at nothing. "Joust?"

Lobordir squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.

"Joust?" Legolas scoured the area, but again there was nothing. "What did you see?"

"I thought I saw . . ."

"What did you see?" Legolas repeated.

"Probably just lack of sleep-"

"After tracking a spellcaster?" Legolas growled. "I warned you against trusting your eyes, not ignore the obvious."

Lobordir reset his posture and reported clearly, "I saw my father, like steam vapour passing over by those trees. He looked as I'd known him, un-aged in the fifty years since he fell. Then, just as the mist upon our camp, was gone like he was never there."

"Did he try to speak?" Legolas asked, taking a gambit upon the sinking of his stomach, "but his words bore no voice?"

"Aye, exactly right." Lobordir faced him, "How did you know?"

"The war-room," he bit out. "Come, we must speak with Úrion."

"You didn't follow?" Úrion asked, his aging forehead lengthening. "The Dúnedain have a sordid history with magic wielders-"

"This is no Dark Numenorean," Legolas debated, "Or if he is, he is so poorly unskilled to be judged unworthy of the title."

Úrion stroked his beard as he often did when deep in thought. "Perhaps not but you do not appreciate the fear one spellcaster can arouse."

Lobordir nodded, "We are but half a day's ride from where the caravan was attacked-"

"Attacked by 'mist'. I believe this . . . person is doing naught but attempting to inspire fear." Legolas gestured to Lobordir. "Tell him what you saw."

Úrion kept quietly pensive as was his nature as Lobordir described what he'd saw. Then he directed his question to Legolas. "Do you think it wise to move camp?"

"I do not believe moving camp would do any good." Legolas took a moment, knowing he was about to suggest something which was surely not to be found popular. "I have heard such illusions present in the manor." He explained what Foruyndes and Eryndes had both seen.

"Forgive me, Sindar," Lobordir said tentatively, "but Foruyndes can hardly be relied upon and Eryndes? Her fears torment her eyes into seeing things that aren't there."

Úrion was not so quick to disregard, "You think this conjurer is responsible?" His face was one of contemplation. "You think the spellcaster is a Dúnedain?"

Lobordir looked between them. "The magics of Numenor are long passed."

Legolas took a long breath, "I do not yet know."

"Can't you tell?" Lobordir asked.

"Can you?" he growled at him, "There are many magics in this world, my friend. One cannot account for them all."

"The two things may in fact not be linked-"

"If they are?" Legolas cut in, his mood tampering his manners.

Úrion regarded both he and Lobordir for a pause. "Joust? Did you feel this illusion was a warning or threat?"

Lobordir was shaking his head before Úrion finished. "Nay, not that I could tell. The old man was just as I remember and speaking like he was telling mother what he'd like for supper."

Úrion studied Lobordir then looked to Legolas. "We'll keep up the added guard for the night. Once we return, we'll start some quiet questions. But for now, let's try to keep this between us. I don't want to start panic."

"A little hard when all the men saw the mist."

"Bear's right," Legolas told Lobordir, "To inform them of what may only be my suspicion would do little but cause distrust."

* * *

A high bellow cut through the air. All chatter was drowned and two dozen sets of eyes whipping from their lesson about clay pot making in the direction of the main gate.

The answering horn gave away the approaching party's identity.

"It's them!" one of children cried, jumping to his feet.

Many children followed, leaping to stand, their mounds of clay lay forgotten.

"Children! Children! Don't run!" Erchel, the mistress of teaching called after them, rubbing her hands on her apron and moving hastily to follow her charges.

Untying her apron and joining the children, Eryndes flowed hurriedly along the path. With Aragorn still south, Úrion and Sindar had taken a hundred of the rangers to the east. Scouts brought back sightings of the enemy in the foothills and they'd left six days earlier. Everyone in Carthal was anxious to learn the outcome of the battle. More importantly, children and families remaining behind were desperate to have their loved one's safely returned.

"Eryndes?" Her hand was taken and yanked. "Eryndes! Barehon put a pebble up his nose!"

Istuihel pointed to her little brother, crying, trying desperately gouging at his nose.

Across the grass and road, the hundred rangers on horseback came to a stop in the embarkation loop, Sindar, Úrion and Lobordir at the head.

With a suppressed groan, Eryndes took Barehon's hand and lead him to sit. "There, there," she said tenderly, her eyes itching to look back at the arriving party. "Can you try to blow? Blow steady and firmly into the handkerchief…"

When finally the stubborn pebble was freed from the boy's nose, Eryndes sent him on his way to his father who amongst the returning rangers. She too followed, anxiously. But alas, the horses were being sorted away to rest at the care of the stable hands, and the majority of the rangers going about their respective business.

If she was honest, her disappointment came mostly for not being there to greet Sindar. His absence over the last six days was . . . notable.

Being completely honest; she'd missed him.

"Are you looking for someone?"

Eryndes felt her cheeks warm but faced him with a big smile that was not 'overly' forced, "Joust! I see there were no fair maids on your journey or we'd expect your return two days from now."

He barked a laugh, crossing his arms over his chest, "Only two days? You give my talents little credit. But please, don't think I failed to see your disappointment. Don't worry, Baineth saw to the task of welcoming Sindar. She was quite attentive."

With an impolite roll of her eyes, Eryndes quelled the sneak of coldness growling into her heart. "Jealous, Joust? I thought you swore no woman would make you sink so low?"

He grinned his most charming smile. "There was one but she fancies another and I can't compete with an elf."

Eryndes hoped her face wasn't as hot from his teasing as it felt. "I see battle hasn't dampened your flare for ridiculousness."

He sniggered but held out his hand to her, "Won't you escort me inside? Pretend you were concerned for my safety and lavish me with your praise for the warrior returned from glorious battle?"

Eryndes took his hand, but lightly, shifting to his arm as she fell into step beside him. Even during the time of their failing courtship, Eryndes always hesitated to make such intimate gestures as hand holding. As her mother used to lecture, 'A maiden always takes extra care in safeguarding her virtue; appearance being just as important as physical. Never give folk reason for gossip. Or men a slither of permittance.'

Folk in small communities talk and quite often talk turned into fact with each new telling.

Lobordir didn't make comment, however; his attempts at physical intimacies notwithstanding, Eryndes knew it was just the way he was. There weren't many women he couldn't charm. And those he couldn't, he kept on trying - the perpetual challenge.

They walked up the stairs to inside.

"How went the battle?"

He glanced at her, "You want to know about battle?"

She pursed her lips. "Not the details, please. Did we lose anyone?"

"A couple rangers were injured, nothing life threatening. They'd be already in the healing rooms. We slaughtered the orcs so easily we spent the following days looking over our shoulders or expecting an ambush."

There was something to the way he spoke, as if he'd stopped himself from saying more. "What is it?"

"Nothing," he tried to soothe, "Just after the training your fellow put us through after the battle, I'm done in. I have about enough left in me to bathe before collapsing, hopefully somewhere in my quarters. My bed preferably, but I'm not fussy."

"Joust," she said adamantly and glad there were no ears close enough to catch his words. "Don't say such things. Someone may think you're serious."

"But I'm not fussy about where I sleep. You know that."

"Joust," she warned.

His smile only grew broader. "If that's the case, I wouldn't be against having your assistance with my bath-"

"Joust!"

"-or helping me find my bed," he finished without pause and then winking, "It's going to be a cold night."

Eryndes tore her hand away and glared up at him, fully aware her face now burned, "Find your own bed."

He leant down, his smile widely showing his set of perfect teeth, "Sure? I'll even marry you."

Whacking him squarely but gently across his handsome face, she then pointed up the second flight of stairs, "On your way! Shoo!"

Lobordir laughed, "Worth a try. Wake me next week? By then Sindar will come up with new ways to torture us." He righted himself, "He's lucky he's my friend. A lesser man might take an exception to his ways and influences."

She watched him go and couldn't help but quietly grin at his back.

Joust. He'd never change.

Returning to the ground level, she quickly went into the great hall. Though the afternoon was not yet late enough for the pre-supper mulling about, the return of the hundred rangers filled the hall with excitement and animated noise.

Her eyes scanned the faces of crowds of folk-

And then suddenly spun around, marching back out the hall to find something 'else' to occupy her time.

* * *

It was two hours hence and Eryndes watched them from afar. The sun lingered a while on the horizon then plunged, sending the north into darkness. Supper came and went. Now scores of Dúnedain sought their own places throughout the manor grounds and fires, seeing out the night with ale, pipes and conversation over the victorious battle.

Some still lingered in the great hall, at the tables playing games, gossiping, and others surrounded the fires, lounging on the arm chairs, smoking pipes and speaking quietly together.

Eryndes caught most of the tale of the battle, even heard about the mysterious 'mist' which caused plenty of speculation amongst young and old. Eryndes didn't truly know what to make of the spellcaster, except that the thought of a magic weaver within her family lands made her nervous.

Instead of joining in the gossips and speculations, she watched 'them' from afar.

She stood next to him, her pretty embroidered bronze dress catching the flickering light of the fire. Her long dark tresses flowing freely down her back, no kink or errant hair out of place. The bright handsome smile she gave him brightened up the room like no other.

Baineth was an exceptional beauty. She was of age; not yet twenty. She was slender and graceful, an almost regal look about her. The prize all unwed men desired, and some married men fancied behind their mugs of ale. Charm and innocence, a girl brought up in a harsh land by an adoring family.

And she was a 'good' girl.

Yet, that evening, Eryndes felt the tightness in her chest and sourness in her mouth to think the girl anything but good.

He returned her smile, a rare enough sight to spurn Eryndes further. He'd spoken with Baineth all through supper too. And before supper.

Of what could they possibly be speaking?

This wasn't the first time either. Baineth's boldness sought him out many times. Watching them now, as his fair face lifted to laugh gently, Eryndes could have sworn her heart was poisoned, the very blood within her veins burned hotter than a glowing branding iron.

Squeezing her fists hard against her stomach, Eryndes couldn't bare to watch any longer. Pivoting briskly she shot out of the hall, down the corridor to the staircase. There was little point allowing her jealousy to reign. There was little point because she had no call to object to his friendship with other women.

There was no reason why Baineth should not wish to befriend him. Nor him seeking hers. She grumbled non to silently all the way up the stairs.

No right to her jealousy. Sindar was a lord and surely entitled to enjoy the company of whom he so chose.

The door to her room slammed shut behind her and she tore herself out of her clothing. Yanking her nightdress over her head, she threw herself down on the bed, the wooden frame creaking loudly.

The memory of her mother's disapproving expression surfaced in her mind and was enough to make her swallow the bitterness and resentment. Her immature fit of temper was not flattering to her character and with a sigh, Eryndes climbed off her bed, straightened the blankets and fetched the pillow from the floor.

People thought her heart barren because she was still unmarried. Still yet to fall in love. But Eryndes knew she was still a woman; she possessed the dreams and desires of any woman. Passion too and the susceptibility to occasional bouts of petty jealousy.

Even jealous over one who'd never be hers.

Setting her jaw firmly, she stripped out of her nightdress and slipped back on her dress. Patting at her hair, she walked back out of her room. Gueniel was on duty in the healer's rooms this evening, and would be glad for company.

Seeking out her friend was preferable to sulking.

It turned out Gueniel departed an hour earlier; gone with her family to their home along the river. Eryndes conceded her mood to remain ill and trudged her way out of the healing rooms on the second floor towards the stairs.

Coming around the corner, her steps came to a brief pause. Sindar was waiting for her by the stairs. Her heart didn't know whether to be elated or scornful.

"You are finally at liberty?" he walked over, a light reprimand to his features. "I have been waiting for you. You left the hall rather abruptly."

He had waiting for her? For hours? How preposterous! And the sting of his reprimand, even if only in jest, threw salt to her already raw nerves. "Did you need something?" but the moment her clipped words slipped out, she urgently wished them back.

The warmth in his eyes died and though he did not move, he suddenly felt very far away, "I require nothing."

He went to move away. In full panic, she snatched his arm, her fingers enclosing on fine silk and ruthlessly hard muscle, "Wait, please. Forgive me, I-it has been a long day, my mood is restless."

He regarded her coolly for a moment, but then softened, "Perhaps it would be best to allow you to rest."

Hand still on his arm, and with the return of the warmth to his face which never failed to capture her, Eryndes knew resting was not what she wanted. "Do you like ginger tea?"

Those endearing creases appeared between his brows, "I do."

She tugged on his arm in the direction of the stairs, "I think it just the thing for a cold night like this. Come."

For someone so light of foot, he was impossible to move and for a moment she thought he was going to brush her off; as she ever so regrettably had done him.

"I prefer to add honey," he eventually admitted.

A big smile fueled by the relief filled her heart. "I do as well. Come," she tugged again, "we can sneak into the kitchen."

The creases grew but he relented and allowed her pull him along, "Why must we sneak?"

"We must if we are to have any of Foruyndes' lavender sugar-snaps without anyone noticing."

"You want us to thieve?"

She grinned at the outrage on his face. "Is it thievery to take from one's own stores? Think of it more an unwillingness to share our company or biscuits with anyone else and so must be silent."

Sindar laughed, a truly wonderful sound, and further alleviated her guilt and soothed her jealousy. He wrapped her hand soundly around his arm. "You have convinced me."

* * *

"If you are unwilling to share, perhaps you should tame your laughter." Legolas stood by the fire, watching and waiting for the kettle to boil. For once they found the kitchen empty; even Foruyndes wasn't to be seen. At Eryndes' request, Legolas was remaining by the fire to remove the kettle before it whistled and possibly alerting anyone close by to their presence. "I believe it counterproductive to our deviance."

"I cannot reach. Foruyndes adores hiding her biscuits in the tallest of places," he could hear a strain to her voice. "Do you think you might help?"

Legolas snickered, "You would never make a very fine burglar."

"Master Elf-?"

"I would love to assist," he deadpanned, "but I am justly occupied."

She made even more noise. "Master Elf-?"

He closed his eyes and shook his head with a chuckle; for all her grace, she couldn't successfully tiptoe through a drunken dwarf party.

A crash sounded from the storeroom. His muscles tensed but there was no shriek or sound of her hitting the ground.

"Eryndes?"

"I think I broke something. A pot?"

He took the kettle off the fire, a little prematurely but at least it would not whistle and give them away. With silent steps, he went with haste towards the storeroom. "May I remind you it was your suggestion we sneak."

"I can almost reach now but I seem to be caught on something-"

He came through the storeroom door and couldn't hold back a laugh any longer. She was atop the ladder, full stretch across the shelves, her feet perched on two shelves of differing height, one hand on the ladder, and the other reaching up to the top shelf. Her skirt had become caught on the edge of a wooden box and held her skirt half up her calf. "Eryndes," he chuckled, "Come down."

"I can reach it-"

"Come down before you fall."

"-I must since you are justly occupied."

"I have no wish to pick you off the floor. Now, come down."

She sighed, her outstretched fingers giving in and she went to get back onto the ladder. Her efforts to right herself only served to draw her dress further up her leg, however, slipping up passed her knee.

Legolas rubbed his face at the absurdity while trying hard not to laugh.

Or gawk. Honestly not gawking took the greater effort . . . Especially when she so obviously wasn't wearing a petticoat. Or hosiery. And her slippers did little to hide her ankles. Dúnedain women were fastidious about hiding their legs and perhaps now he knew why. Pale smooth skin, long and neatly shaped; he wouldn't want any other male leering at them either.

"Umm, do you think you could turn around a moment?"

Breaking his eyes away from her prone figure and fine legs, he took hold of the ladder and nimbly made up the rungs with speed and ease, "Hold still."

"What are you doing?"

"Hold still." With one hand taking his weight, he stretched around her and freed the caught fabric from the box. "You have torn your dress." He secured her by boldly wrapping an arm around her waist, taking most her weight and coaxed her back to the ladder.

And then he stilled. The press of her side, the warmth of her in his arm, her scent flooding his senses, the long trail of onyx flowing down her back to brush against his arm . . .

"Can you not try to reach the bag, the brown paper one?" she twisted back to the shelving and pointed, the movement nestling her generous backside against his thigh.

His breath froze in his chest, the sharp rush of lust piercing through his control. "You will have to go down first." He cringed at the catch in his voice.

Edging around in his arm to face him, her face soured in doubt. "I cannot with you here as well."

She could if she tried. Breathing out in feigned annoyance, Legolas took a lower hold of her waist, "Hold on."

"To what?"

"To me."

She had only a moment to do so before he released his hand holding the ladder and leaped down. Eryndes yelped in surprise. He landed solidly on his feet, his lower hold preventing hers from touching the ground. A wry smirk lifted his features and enjoyed her firm grip upon him, "You may let go of me now."

"You might have warned me," she protested, giving him a light whack on his shoulder and moving out from his hold.

Not letting her get away, he leaned in closer, "I thought I did." Then returning to the ladder, he went up, grabbed the bag and leapt back down.

Still smirking broadly, he held out the bag. "I find it astounding you can make it through each day without supervision. Is this my new occupation, rescuing damsels from the evils of ladders?"

She took the bag from him and turned about, walking stubbornly back towards the kitchen. "Thank you. Next time, I will watch the kettle."

With a light hearted chuckle, Legolas followed.

* * *

"You're taking too long," Foruyndes announced flatly, her eyes squinting down at her work. "Remember you cannot take a century."

It was a bright morning a few days later. The wounded rangers from the battle a week earlier were healing well and the scouts reported no new sightings of orc encroachment. Each day the patrols and scouts went further and further out away from Carthal, and each day they reported the same; the enemy had gone to ground once more.

Even so, Legolas and Úrion maintained a strict watch over the borders, the rivers, forests and mountains. They drilled the rangers for battle daily. They discussed strategy, logistics and deployment. They had Camaenor and his craftsmen continually labouring to fortify Carthal's aging defenses.

If Angmar did decide to attack the Dúnedain before winter, they would be ready for them.

From his armchair, Legolas glared at his friend, "I do not plan to take a century."

Having returned from an early morning ride out to check the scouting posts, Legolas found Foruyndes waiting for him with hot breakfast and a stern eye.

"How should I know what you plan? You elves do a lot of planning, and contemplating, and procrastinating. It's a wonder your kind ever get anything done."

He sat back into chair and snatched his tea from the occasional table with a less than polite huff. Foruyndes always stored a few choice slights to level at his race's languid tendencies. Even if they were highly exaggerated. "You should know I was advised not to rush."

"By Aragorn no doubt, no doubt at all," she licked her thumb and re-threaded her needle. "There is a difference between not rushing and not doing anything at all. Foruyndes thinks you are doing the latter."

"Do you call in each other's company most nights nothing? Sharing two out of every five meals? Story time with the children-?"

"Aye and I suppose she thinks you a very good friend or perhaps a replacement for her absent brother?" She chuckled, glancing up through her weathered eyeglass, "Neither of those will strike a love spark. Once those ideas set to stone . . .?"

"Once set to stone?" he pressed.

"Nigh impossible to break."

"What do you suggest I do? Shout poetry from the rooftop?" he growled, resenting every word she spoke for in his stomach he knew she was right.

"Have you not figured it out already?" Putting down her work, she rose and walked passed him with a pat to his shoulder, "My dear boy, you have to decide for yourself. No use asking an old woman."

He ground his teeth. It was near three weeks now since Aragorn left for the south. Another day or so and he would return, accompanied by a company of rangers and one, so he was told, charming warrior. For many minutes Legolas sat in front of the fire, hating the idea of this man, Gell, being charming and charismatic the likes of which Legolas could never hope.

"She does like long rides, far out away from the manor." Foruyndes returned with a small plate of jam. Frowning, she searched about her.

With a fond smile, Legolas climbed out of his seat and went back to the kitchen. "Long rides away from Carthal?" he reminded her, carrying the toasted bread and butter she'd forgotten.

Foruyndes didn't answer, instead set the toast and butter next to the jam and retook her seat.

Legolas remained standing. "A little dangerous for a simple diversion, do you not agree?"

Tugging the thread tightly with her needle, she then skewered the fabric and drew through for another stitch. "Life in the north does not stop because of danger. Do not all the families still reside out on their farms, some as much as fifty miles to Carthal's wake?"

"Still," he protested, "to venture out without purpose-?"

"There was a time when you needed no excuse. Sindar escaped the confines of mortal folk as he so pleased. Nowadays, your focus is solely on training your soldiers and staying close in the off chance Eryndes might toss you her hoses and garter."

He blushed, "Do not be ridiculous-"

"Yours has been a turbulent mood since the morning Strider left. Foruyndes thinks it time. Time you sort peace and drag poor Eryndes with you. She can weather your moods and besides, romance can hardly blossom with so little privacy as to be found around here." She sighed deeply, "You men know so little of romance-"

"I am no man-"

"Does my mind recall in error or did you not have a debt to be paid to the family of a man you found in Angmar? Or have you already seen to the matter? Foruyndes thinks not. You are so apt at taking unnecessary time. Dawdling. Well, their farm is in the north western foothills. Would it take almost the entire day to ride there and another to ride back? Aye, it would. With a few hours to spare, one might think. Only a few hours spent in recreation, mind, as the night cannot fall without a chaperone if a maiden's reputation is to survive; her companion an elf or not. Folk would talk. You must reach the farm before nightfall."

Legolas waited a pause, but she did seem finished. "Aye," he agreed, "I have heard much of the talkings of folk. Surely an evil."

Foruyndes chuckled, her hands moving with fluid ease in their sewing, "Gossip is the lifeline and damnation of communities. Now, harken. Far along the north road on the west side lies the largest and oldest forest in the region. Follow the stock track, you cannot miss it, then find the well-used deer track at a junction marked by an ancient chestnut," she nodded, still looking to her work, "Five leagues and you'll find beauty even to the liking of an elf."

Legolas watched her, musing whether the old woman was as mad as she seemed. Sometimes he did wonder. She could not have simply planned all this on the spur of the moment.

"Best to leave before morrow's dawn to reach it by midday. No finer spot for luncheon in the north!"

"How long have you planned this?" he asked flatly.

"Planned? Oh my dear laddy, Foruyndes makes no plans," she laughed from her belly, then pulled out a bag hidden down beside her chair, "I've already packed the essentials, plus some extras for a touch of romance."

Legolas stared at the bag. It was big enough for far more than two days, "Are you seeking to manipulate or aid me?"

Foruyndes held out the bag for him to take, "My mind may not work as it once did but there's naught wrong with my heart. You, I'm afraid to say, could not romance a cat on heat."

Heat rising in his cheeks, he opened his mouth-

"You could easily befriend it though!" She cackled, whacking the armrest with her hand.

Legolas waited for her; his gaze steady and calm.

"Oh, lad, here. Take it," she handed over the bag, "I promise, Foruyndes has only the desire to aid. How else will I live long enough to see you wed and make a brood of wee elf-babies?"

His brow rose-

"Go on, lad."

Taking the bag from her, he inclined his head with a mix of gratitude and spurned pride, "(Thank you)." Then he paused, dropping his gaze to the bag straps in his fingers, a little quiver taking hold in his stomach.

"Why do you hesitate?" she soothed, "Oh, you're shy?"

His head shot up, "I am not."

"Then go," she waved to the door. "On second thought, leave the bag here. I might have something else to add by morning."

He placed the bag on the table but his feet didn't move and he stood rooted to the floor as if a large weight pressed upon his back.

From all he'd ventured with his efforts so far, this plan was a far higher branch to climb. And so too the greater the fall. "Foruyndes," he began quietly-

"Oh Sindar," Foruyndes beamed at him. "You'll do fine. What lady could resist one as fine as you? Now be off with you; I have a bundle of mending to do."

At that his eyes narrowed and he marched towards the door.

"Sindar?"

He stopped, answering her with a raised eyebrow.

"Forget trying to be charming. Be true to yourself."


	19. Love and War (Part Two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Thanks to those who favorited, liked, followed, kudos and especially to the reviewers. You guys are my precious.
> 
> ** Big thanks to Frannel for working through all my rough and rawness. I can't help myself!
> 
> *** Part two was never going to be long posted after part one. I just wanted to get the first half out once it was done and let people know I'm still alive.
> 
> **** WARNING! Descriptions of violence and suggestion of rape. Reminder, this story is aimed at mature readers! I would warn about some cheesy romance too . . . but this IS a romance serial.
> 
> ***** Summer Song – song by Michael McGlynn
> 
> ****** There is another sky - poem by Emily Dickinson.
> 
>  
> 
> 'Stop confusing real life with a romantic novel!'- Gloria, Jewel of the Nile

 

* * *

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

Aglarebon – Woodland Stallion, Sindar's horse

Aragorn/Strider – Male, Chieftain of the Dúnedain

Baradon/Sculls – Male, Elite Ranger Scout

Bregol/Web - Male, Ranger

Camaenor/Vice - Male, Master of Arms

Cordoves/Swan – Female, Elite Ranger Scout

Eryndes – Female, Mistress of Carthal & Apothecary

Faron/Dusk – Male, Hunting Master & Elite Ranger Scout

Foruyndes – Female, Mistress of Stores

Gueniel – Female, Midwife

Laeron/Wren – Male, Elite Ranger Scout

Lobordir/Joust – Male, Master of Stables & Elite Ranger Scout

Mydedis – Female, Mistress of Housekeeping

Mereniel/Ivy – Female, Elite Ranger Scout (Pregnant)

Sali – Female, Mistress of Kitchen

Sindar/Master Elf /Legolas – Sinda Male, undisclosed Prince of the Woodland Realm on unofficial secondment

Trîw/Jester – Male, Elite Ranger Scout

Úrion/Bear – Male, Second in Command

* * *

"Not like that!"

Eryndes took a look moment tearing her eyes away from the towering figure coming out the kitchen. He wasn't at breakfast either. Now he made his way through the morning bustle in the great hall; people finishing their plates, readying themselves for the day, heading out to their particular duties. Finally she drew her attention to the young girl sitting in a snit on her lap, "How then am I to do it? You said you wanted a braid."

"Not like that!" Coru, Cordoves' daughter and Joust's niece, pushed away her hands and pulled out the braid from her hair. "I want it the 'other' way!"

Taking a deep breath, Eryndes pulled the girl more convincingly upon her lap, "Then tell me how you want it." Her eyes dived back across the great hall. Now he was speaking with Baradon and Laeron, all three of them talking animatedly. Sindar hadn't been in the hall for breakfast. Hopefully his coming out of the kitchen meant Foruyndes prepared something for him? He shouldn't have to go hungry if his duty had him out and about early.

The three of them were joined by Sirdhem, Faron, Camaenor-

"Eryndes!"

She tugged her concentration back to Coru. "Yes? Oh, yes. How did you want it?"

"I want it like Sindar's!"

Eryndes sat back with grimace, "Well, girl, you cannot."

"But I want."

"I said you cannot-"

"Why?"

She sighed, pulling her back to sit properly, "Because I said so. Now sit still."

The girl however was just as stubborn as her mother and wiggled against her hold, "But I want it!"

"Sit still."

"But I want it!"

"I said: Sit still."

"But I want it like Sindar's!" she wailed, real tears now tumbling down her face.

"I do not know how! Now, sit still or you will go without."

"But I want!," her sobs grew louder and louder, but at least she was still. Eryndes combed her hair back once more to begin again-

"Shall I teach you?"

Her heart swelled. "Good morning," she faced him, unable to stop herself from smiling broadly.

Sindar stood beside them at the end of the table, just as neat and kept as was his way. She's often wondered what he'd do were she to tussle and mess up his hair a little. No fellow should be so neat. Especially when most women struggled to achieve half such elegance.

"Good morning." He answered before peering down at Coru. "Good morning, Coru. You are crying. What was our bargain?"

Sniffing, Coru wiped her eyes, "I don't cry and you don't tell mama it was me who put salt in her tea."

Eryndes smothered her laugh with her hand.

Sindar's stern expression didn't change. "And why should you not cry without legitimate reason?"

Coru sat up straighter and sucked in air to stop herself from crying, "It bothers your ears. I'm sorry Sindar. I won't cry."

"Very well." His gaze shifted to Eryndes, the twitch in his lip giving him away. Sindar was excessively pleased with his progress with Carthal's children.

He was learning to be sure, but of course she was yet to explain he'd only scratched the surface with children. No, she'd leave that revelation for a future date.

"Teach her?" she asked him dubiously, "She is far too young to do it herself."

Sindar moved in closer, "I did not mean the child." He gestured to the seat beside her in question and then sat upon her nod. Eryndes had to bite at her lips to hide her growing excitement. Sindar's beautiful braids were as synonymous to him as his weapons and fine clothes.

And now she was going to learn.

Taking a handful of the girl's hair, Sindar's long fingers segmented it equally as easily as if it was his own hair, "It is very simple."

Taking a clump of the girl's hair as well, she tried her best to follow, "Not too fast."

"Why are you seeing to Cordoves' daughters?"

"Cordoves and her mother left with the group collecting the remaining late season harvest from the farms to the west. She will be back in time for her duty this afternoon. Joust, well he got the girls awake and out of bed but-"

"He pulls and makes it messy," Coru sulked.

Eryndes shook her head with a laugh, "-then rushed out the door mewling about being urgently needed."

The girl breathed in deep and exhaled even more noisily in a wordless back-chat.

"I heard you have been included in Baradon's advocate-party for the wedding?" Eryndes asked the question burning to be asked since she'd heard the rumour.

"Watch what you are doing," he reproached. Looking back at her work to find she had faulted the order of the braid. "I am informed my duties will consist of attending the eve gathering and ensuring Baradon stands, awake and able enough in body to speak his worth during the ceremony."

"Members of the advocacy-party are usually reserved for kin and close friends," she explained lightly, "Baradon must think very highly of you."

Glancing at him when he didn't answer, she found his expression stoic and completely unreadable, his gaze focused intently on her braiding. It was not unlike him though; he did this whenever she stumbled upon a topic she guessed he didn't wish to discuss or had no answer for. "I thought you might have had little time to spare?" she ventured with care, "With you and Úrion waging war in the far east?"

Finally, she got a reaction. His eyes moved to hers, and took away her breath with the rare vulnerability she saw there. "I am . . . greatly honoured by Baradon's request." He blinked and raised his chin, the vulnerability disappearing. "As for the war, our enemy has sunk into the shadows again. We must take the time to seek them out." He sighed, "And as I have been recently reminded, in times of war or not, life goes on."

"And folk still find time to fall in love," Eryndes pointed out.

"Indeed," he agreed, the smile returning to his eyes and melting her in her seat, "That would appear to be so." He looked pointedly down at her hands, "I think you have mastered the braid."

Following his gaze, she saw her braid almost perfectly mimicking the elf's. "It was not hard after all."

"Often things are not as bad as they seem." He waited for her to tie off the braid, "Coru? Will you please leave us?"

Frowning, Eryndes patted Coru on the thigh, "Go find you sisters, then off to your classes."

Coru slid down from her lap and looked at her and Sindar with trepidation. From the corner of her eye she saw Sindar gave the child a nod of assurance then knocked his head to the side, "Go on. Do as you are asked."

Coru didn't move immediately. "You'll come later?"

Eryndes' heart skipped. The children adored the elf. Not a day passed without them pressing him to come to their story time in the late afternoon.

"If I am able," he made no promise yet Coru grinned like he did and took off in what Eryndes hoped was in search of her sisters.

"Is something the matter?" Eryndes shifted in her seat to face him better.

"It is time I paid my due," he said quietly, "to the family of the fallen warrior I found in Angmar."

Her shoulders relaxed. For a moment there a terrible fear snuck into her mind; of him announcing his leaving Carthal or something just as tragic. "When will you go?"

"An hour before dawn tomorrow morning. I will not return until the day after."

Eryndes waited; he seemed to have more to say given the intensity to his face. "Master Elf?" she enquired when he didn't speak.

"I know not the family," he hesitated, "I am but a stranger to them. I would be . . . pleased if you were to . . . accompany me."

Of all the things he might've said, Eryndes would never have guessed this. "You want me to go with you?"

"I do."

Her first reaction was disbelief. "Should not a ranger be better suited?"

Sindar rose to his feet and stepped away, his attention already looking about the hall. "If you decide you will come, dress warmly. The path leads high into the mountains."

Eryndes frowned at his sudden aloofness. In all honesty, she was twice busy these days since Aragorn forbade her any laborious duties. Most days were spent working with the families in the preparation for winter, not to mention quelling the unrest following Nestdol's removal from Carthal's rule. In addition she was helping tend the sick in the healing rooms, putting the finishing touches on the medicines she'd prepared and also seeing to the smooth running of the manor. In many ways, her days were even more tied up than ever before . . .

Yet, this was Sindar. And if Sindar was asking this of her . . . "If you believe I can help then of course I will come."

0000

"Unpleasant fellow," Gueniel scowled. "You're not going to go with him?"

Eryndes took a bit of cheese, taking her time to chew before swallowing, "I am."

"Spending two days alone with that pretentious elf?" Gueniel scoffed shaking her head, "I can scarcely think of a less tempting activity, well maybe attending to Sali's feet." She shivered in revulsion.

Eryndes shook her head with a chuckle, "You only say that because you do not like him."

"Darn right I don't. You wouldn't either if the first time he'd spoken to you he called you 'midwife'.

"Perhaps he did not know your name?"

Her friend hissed between her teeth, "He might've asked. Imagine being reduced to the mere sum of your trade? What conceit! Typical of his kind. Typical of noble-borns. He's probably never associated with common-folk before and has no idea how to now."

"If that is indeed true," Eryndes grinned sheepishly, gesturing for Gueniel to look across the room, "then I do believe he is learning."

Gueniel frowned but glanced as she'd bade.

Sindar was sitting with a fair sized group around one of the tables towards the other end of the hall. A rough count had their company around the eighteen mark, all talking and eating supper together. Dagnir and Camaenor were in the group, with Sirdhem and many from the elite scout unit, like young Laeron and Baradon. Mereniel and Cordoves sat with them also, completely at ease with the mostly male gathering. Urion sat beside Sindar on one side and Joust to the other.

Though the words spoken were too far away to hear, she watched him speak and converse with those around him. He must have said something humorous because the group erupted into laughter.

"Eryndes," Gueniel's mutter broke through her study. "Elven lords don't court mortals."

Eyes widening, Eryndes whirled back to her friend, "I beg your pardon?"

Gueniel held her glare without speaking.

"Do not poison my friendship with Sindar just because you cannot get Amben to even look in your direction!"

Eryndes slapped her hand over her mouth. How could she have said anything so cruel?

Gueniel slowly nodded and rose to her feet, "You're right. But then when are you not, 'mistress'?"

"Gueniel," she tried to apologise, "I am sorry-"

"Good evening."

Eryndes shot to her feet and dashed after her, "Gueniel, please. I'm so sorry!" she followed her friend out the hall, babbling out her most sincerest apologies.

0000

The morning air was particularly icy when Eryndes pulled her great coat tightly around her and stepped through the manor's big doors into the frosty morning. The stone steps were a little slippery and the ground made a crunching sound on her way to the stable. She had no idea if she was already too late, if he had left already, or perhaps she was early?

One hour before dawn wasn't the most precise of times.

Leading Banjo out the stable after saddling him, she looked around for the great grey Sindar rode. She could not see the horse either. Perhaps she really was late and he had indeed gone? Should she try to catch up?

Last night she'd spent half an hour in humbling contrition with Gueniel, Eryndes almost upon her knees for forgiveness. Sometimes her mouth turned inexcusably nasty when provoked.

Gueniel wasn't wrong however; lords didn't court commoners and elven lords surely didn't court mortals. This she'd already known. She held no false hopes. Yet what was so very bad about enjoying Sindar's company? Especially given he was not always going to be around?

In a day, a month or year, eventually he would leave. And she? Hers was but a fleeting gasp upon the wind of his lifetime. Wisdom, and of course Gueniel, would have her wean herself away from him.

But not yet. No, not yet.

And so once she'd made amends with Gueniel, promising her heart was in no danger, she'd scooted off to her bed for an early night. She'd laid out her clothes, packed her satchel, and even gone as far as to take a small nip of tonic to ease her journey into sleep. If Sindar was asking for her help then she thought to be thoroughly rested and attentive. Her plan worked; she'd woken afresh, washed and dressed before even the kettle upon the flame in her room began to boil. After a drink of stout tea and yesterday's bread warmed and lathered with honey, she'd taken her satchel and great coat and tiptoed briskly down stairs.

Yet, after all that she was late and Sindar had indeed already left? Eryndes looked about the main embarkation loop, her spirits continuing to sink.. Torches burned along the road, illuminating the rangers on duty along the towers at the main gate and around the great wall. Some of the rangers begun looking at her curiously.

Bitter disappointment set deep in her belly.

Swiftly Banjo's head turned to the left, his ears pricked and listening intently.

"(Good morning)," Sindar's voice cut through the early morning air.

The pre dawn darkness had played tricks on her eyes. For there he stood next to Aglarebon by the one of the troughs on the other side of the embarkation loop. Aglarebon's head was down, munching away at the chaft.

"I am sorry for being late," Eryndes offered, walking Banjo over to him in great relief.

"You are not late. " He rose lithely onto Aglarebon's back, while Aglarebon made no pause in his breakfast. Sindar played with his quiver-pack strap on his chest then cleared his throat, "However, we do have a long day ahead."

Eryndes noted his quiver was full and a refill of more arrows stowed in his saddle pack. The idea of him expecting trouble was not something to take comfort. Resolute she was safe in the company of an elven elite, she did her best to forget the some two dozen arrows and climbed into her saddle.

Sindar waited for her to take her reins before pulling Aglarebon from his meal and took off at an easy pace. Quickly, Eryndes urged Banjo to catch up.

Twenty minutes later, they had passed along the great north road. The sun was on the rise, the pale light of dawn filled the sky and the green of the grasses and leaves deepened.

The gentle rises and dips in the country beautifully contrasted in the low light, sweeping Eryndes's mind away with their rolling grasses, taking her far away to a world with only her and Sindar, riding in rhythm together.

Eventually a tree line appeared ahead and Sindar slowed his horse. The trees were burnt orange of the late autumn and long died grasses at their base. As they got closer she could see a small road leading off into the forest and to the west.

Aglarebon pulled up to a gentle walk as they turned onto the road into the forest.

"I imagine you would know this forest well?"

Eryndes, stunned by his sudden speech after the long silence, took a moment to remember how to use her voice, "Somewhat but it has been many years. I pray you did not ask me along today as guide?"

"Of course not," he said with a wry smile.

Of course not indeed! What elf would need a guide to navigate a forest? Eryndes considered herself fortunate of the low morning light for Sindar must not fully see the blush of foolishness on her cheeks.

But then, maybe being an elf he could? There was so much about him she didn't know.

"Our path lies far beyond this forest and I would like to get some distance under us." His pause was long but Eryndes didn't know what he was wanting her to say. She didn't even truly know their path through the mountains. "Do you object continuing briskly?" he finally asked.

"I have no objection," she answered quickly. But then his question poked at her pride, "Neither does Banjo. It would take more than Aglarebon's current lethargy to wind us."

She didn't need the sun to fully rise to see; Sindar's smugness would've been visible even in the pitch blackness of night.

"Then let us continue." He leant down, muttering quietly to Aglarebon. The grey snorted indignantly then turned and shot forward.

Banjo was ready however and followed behind him down the narrow path through the forest, the low light dropping even darker.

It didn't take long before Aglarebon's thundering white silhouette grew smaller and smaller. Banjo was quick on his feet but even so, there was no way he could keep up with the blazing hooves of the great elven stallion.

Sindar eased him back eventually. Most likely upon satisfaction his point was made and Eryndes had learnt her lesson.

Eryndes shook her head and gave Banjo a soothing few strokes. If she was stubborn and prideful, Sindar was downright cocky.

Fitting then, too, that the horse should match the rider.

The time passed as they continued to make their steady and brisk way through the forest, the trees thickening as the rode deeper.

Sindar stopped them every so often to look around the landscape or listen to the wind. When Eryndes asked what he meant by ' _listening to the wind_ ', he chuckled ' _life_ ' then continued on as if his explanation was fulfilled.

Coming up to a small dell, Sindar slowed Aglarebon to a gentle walk. Around them everything was pretty. Sunlight streamed through the canopy overhead, warming the short grass on the floor. A small stream flittered it's way beside them, skimming over rocks filling the air with gentle music.

Sindar pulled Aglarebon to a stop, stroking his fur with affection. He slid down to the ground and gestured for Eryndes to do the same, "Come, we shall rest here awhile."

Eryndes got two feet on the ground before feeling him behind her. She took the apple he held out for her but waved away the hunk of dried meat with a thank you.

Taking a quiet bite, she watched.

Though it really wasn't any of her business, Eryndes always did wonder what precisely the elf did when he would go out riding into the forests.

His stature eased, his broad shoulders lifted. So did his chin. His movements, his gentle footfalls were as a feather upon a breath of warm spring breeze. The silver to his eyes brightened. The line to his lips, often found stern, relinquished their woes and smugness to play in idle contentment.

It was as if the forest was breathing new life in him.

Watching him float along the edge of the creek towards the clearing took away her breath. In haste she dropped her eyes to the fruit in her hands, the warmth under her skin growing into an uncontrollable inferno. "Agreeable spot," she remarked offhandedly.

"This forest has flourished under a peaceful sun," Sindar's deep voice caressed the air and she raised her head to see him reach out to touch an ancient ash, his fingers running idly over the bark, "but it was not always so."

"The north has long been a land of war and struggle." Taking a bite, Eryndes edged in closer but all she saw was a tree. "I tend to believe it is only the woods who thrive."

"Your belief is misguided; even the woods suffer evil." He stepped away from the tree and turned to face her with a glowing smile, "A dark subject for another time, perhaps when the gloom of a grey day calls for it. Not this day. Tell me about this family we are accepting hospitality from this evening."

Swallowing another mouthful of apple, Eryndes did as asked and told him all she knew. There was, however, very little to tell.

0000

Sitting back in his saddle with satisfaction, Legolas knew they had made it to Foruyndes' secret location.

As Aglarebon eased into a walk, the trees opened, giving way, slowly the view cleared, a strong fragrance of flowers and warm grass caressed by a gentle breeze.

By the sharp intake of air beside him, Legolas knew he owed Foruyndes a whole flock of partridge.

"Have you ever seen anything more beautiful?"

A smile crept upon his lips but he wasn't looking at the meadow, "I cannot say I have."

"This is our small diversion then?"

Before he'd answered Eryndes was already sliding down out of her saddle, "It is. I hope you are not disappointed?"

Walking out into the warm sunlight, the skirt of her dress gently moved through the bright green unkempt mountain grass. Letting go of Banjo, she walked further out from the trees as if in wonder. She looked back at him expectantly, "Are you not coming?"

Easing himself down to the ground, he whispered to Aglarebon, "(Don't go far)," and took the bag from the saddle.

Catching up with her, he finally looked about them. Black rocky mountains rose sharply up to the sky, the meadow a wave of gentle slopes, flowing with knee high grasses littered with vibrantly coloured wild flowers. Down towards the bottom a small blue sapphire lake sparkled to the tune of the midday light, and encrusted by smoothed black rock and more wild flowers.

Brightly coloured butterflies fluttered about the warm air, their easy pace interrupted by the buzz of dragonflies.

A few head of deer grazed peacefully and without concern even though the distance from them was not great.

"They are aware we pose no threat," Legolas answered her quizzical look at him.

"Because of you?"

"Indeed."

She eyed him but he wavered away her assumed insult, "The truth, Eryndes. They see me and know I will not hunt them in open grassland. You however do not understand such morality." When her outrage increased, he sighed, "I do not mean you specifically, but your kind. Humans are well known to plunder to exhaustion."

"Perhaps you might tell them I would not hunt them on any field," she bit out.

He snorted staring down at her, "No doubt due to your lack of skill."

Glaring, she turned and walked on.

Legolas smiled and didn't mind her agitation the slightest. Her bright spirit tickled him, especially when he pushed. It didn't last though, for a long draw of breath of the fragrant mountain air and she smiled about her once more.

Another sharp intake of breath and she turned to him, wonder filling her face.

Swooping down she plucked at the long grass and brought some to her mouth. Gnawing on a stalk, she held out one to him.

Legolas stared at the grass stem, suddenly taken back three ages; sweet grass. Not since childhood had he chewed on sweet grass. It was after all a child's fancy.

"Are elves too refined to enjoy something so simple?"

Taking the stem, her dazzling face not affording him any resistance, Legolas put the end into his mouth.

Sweetness well remembered teased his tongue and he gave in and chewed.

Beaming with satisfaction she twirled back to face the gentle slope. "Come," she spoke around the grass in her mouth, "I think I hear a stream nearby. It must lead down to the lake."

There was a stream, quiet and narrow, threading lazily down the slope towards the lake. A few scattered trees lined the most prominent slope and he guided her towards them. Though the sun was not as hot today and they were high within the mountains, he didn't want her to feel uncomfortable.

From the spot the mountains around them opened up to show the plains far below and the dark stone ridged mountains towering up from behind.

"All my life," she was saying, "I have lived near, have ventured into those very woods, yet never knew this was here."

Choosing a spot under the tree where the grass was not so long and without rocks, Legolas set down the bag, "I cannot take credit for the discovery."

"No?"

"Foruyndes directed us here," he explained, walking over and running his hand across the tree's trunk.

"What are you doing?"

He looked up to see her staring at him curiously. "Asking permission."

"Permission?"

"Do you not think it respectful to ask before sitting on another's roots?"

She stared at him, open mouthed. Then her eyes run down from the tree to the ground where she stood. "What was its answer?"

"I may but you must sit someplace else."

Instantly she darted backwards, horror quickly filling her face. "It said that?"

"Of course not!" he laughed from his belly. She was so gullible.

Red faced, Eryndes sat down on the grass in a huff. She set her skirts about her before bringing the bag in front of her. "If you are done having fun?"

The pout of her lips his reward, Legolas wasn't at all tempted to quit his fun so quickly.

"Are you hungry?"

He unbuckled his chest strap and took off his knives and quiver, and sat down beside her while maintaining a respectful distance, "I am."

"Are we safe here?" she nodded at the knives now resting against the trunk of the tree. Her eyes narrowed, "Or is the tree going to protect us?"

"I am safe," he rested down on an elbow, gazing at her openly, "How good are you with knives?"

Stifling a laugh, she took a small kitchen knife from the bag and took off the leather cover, "I guess we shall find out." Taking out wrapped pork, cheese and bread, she sliced with quick efficiency. "If I passed the knife test, would you mind uncorking the wine?"

With a chuckle, he pulled out the skin from the bag and uncorked it. A sniff told him it was not wine, but mead. He filled the two wooden goblets and recorked the skin.

Curiosity and his stomach getting the better of him, he started emptying the rest of Foruyndes' bag. She did mention some added extras? Perhaps something sweet?

There was cold tongue. He dumped that on Eryndes' side with disgust. There was a small pot of mustard. He broke the wax and set it beside the small wooden cutting board. Next there was a wax parcel with what felt like biscuits. He managed only to pull off half the twine before Eryndes took it from him.

"Those are for after the meal."

"Says who?" he counted, reaching again for the biscuits.

She put the parcel behind her and out of his reach, "Civilisation."

He scoffed, "Are you calling me uncivilised?"

She didn't answer, but still smiling she held out a piece of cheese. He ignored the cheese at first. Her gleam in her eyes didn't waver, neither did the cheese.

He gave in and dunked the cheese in the mustard. "I would have preferred the biscuits."

She snickered as she sliced their bread. "You are lucky not to get my tongue."

Choking on the cheese, he quickly took a large gulp of mead, "Come again?"

"My tongue," Innocently the tip of her knife pointed to the wrapped cold tongue at her side and then asked with concern, "Is the mustard too spicy?"

Legolas filled his mouth to the brim and swallowed all lewd thoughts of her tongue down with the mead. He cleared his throat, "Not at all."

Distracting himself with a task, one by one he emptied the contents of the bag. Foruyndes had truly expected to feed a larger party; there was enough food to last the two of them days. Far too generous considering how meticulous she was with her stores and how many hours she'd regaled him with the pressures of ensure their winter stores saw them through to spring.

Either Foruyndes' ill mind erred or had become negligent in her exuberance to aid in his romantic endeavors. He would have to reimburse Carthal's stores by way of his bow upon their return.

By the time the bag was emptied, a small pile of earthenware jars, more wrapped cheese and meat, dried and fresh fruits, and five twine bound packages of various sizes and contents laid before him.

His incredulous disbelief was met by Eryndes' own amusement. She made no comment though.

Until he picked out a small pottery jar and lifted the wire latch.

"Milk pudding?" she asked with surprise. "With blackfrost berry compote?" The way she was looking at him, he knew he was missing something. "Wherever did you find them?"

He hesitated. "In the bag."

Her surprise faded into a coy smile, "My favourite."

At once his stomach clenched. Foruyndes. "Blackfrost berries are exceedingly rare," he said lamely. He would've rathered the bag contain nothing but basic fair than having to admit the gesture was not his. "Foruyndes horde is indeed worthy of legend."

"Foruyndes?" Her smile faltered, her head dropping back to her toils. "Aye, she has her ways." Finishing quickly, she cleaned and put away the knife, then placed the wood board more equally between them. Eryndes cut them a decent amount for lunch but left most of the unnecessary surplus untouched. He watched her fine fingers wrap and bound, refilling the bag he'd emptied with strategic care. Heavy items to the bottom, light and breakable to the top.

She left out the two pots of pudding and biscuits yet cunningly placed them out of his reach.

"(Finished)?" he teased, "(may I eat now)?"

She topped up his cup. "You have much to learn about picnic etiquette."

"Oh?" he went to take another drink, "Or do you mean to say, Dúnedain etiquette?"

She stopped him, her fingers taking his wrist with a small laugh, "Is it not customary amongst elves to wait for the table to be set before 'both' may eat?"

"I am not required to wait for anyone," he explained easily, "well, except for my father." For a split moment Legolas stiffened at his own carelessness.

She released his wrist with disbelief, "Not even your king?"

Legolas forced a little laugh then raised his cup, "(To the king)?"

"To king Thranduil," she did the same, then added playfully, "And to your father for making you wait." When they'd both sipped, she unknowingly toasting to his father twice, she waved him forth, "Now, you may eat."

"(You are too kind)." He dug in but kept an amused watch of her controlled pace and manner; taking up single articles at a time and slow deliberate chews-

"May I ask you a question?"

So intent he'd been watching her eat, her question caught him by surprise. But he rewarded her interest in him with a bow, "Anything you wish."

"Will you tell me-," she hesitated, "I would very much like to know about your home." She continued hastily when Legolas hesitated, "But if it is not something you wish to talk about-?"

Legolas leant forward. "That is not at all the case. You of course mean Lasgalen." He took a decent slice of pork but didn't eat it straight away. "Much of my life has been itinerant in nature, shifting from patrol camps within the boundaries of the realm or with the rangers. Never have I remained anywhere long enough to be called home since my youth." He nodded, "However, please, what do you wish to know?"

Eryndes looked around her, "The woods of Carthal are the largest I have ever known and it is but a mere fraction of the size of Lasgalen. I have heard tales all my life about the great fortress, carved not by hand but by the passage of underground rivers-"

"There was some hand crafting involved."

Her bright eyes looked down, "There are so many wonders in the world. I have yet to see any of them."

"Then," he gently pushed, "perhaps you should."

"I always said I would," coming out of her reverie, she sat up higher on the ground, "And I do not wish to say never."

"What is stopping you?"

She shifted again, "No one to go with and it is not safe for women to go alone."

Though it was a valid point, he did not believe she'd given her full reasons. "You travelled when you were a child."

"With my father and my brother. And Aragorn." She smiled, "Probably the fondest memories I have." She blushed then cleared her throat. "So," she continued quickly, "you can see my fondness for learning about other lands."

"Indeed." He studied her closely, a new thrill touching his heart, "Lasgalen is one of those lands you would wish to see?"

She returned his stare. "Yes, I truly would. Even to visit the great halls of King Thranduil." She bit her lip, "That is if I was given leave to do so. Once my father travelled thus far with Aragorn, and although was welcomed into a patrol's camp for the night, he was very politely denied any further entry."

His gaze hadn't moved from her for some time but now shifted to the sunny meadow around them. "There is much darkness overshadowing the forest. In a different time, your father would have been welcomed into the realm. In these dark times however," he shook his head, "strict security must be maintained, not simply for our sake, but for outsiders as well. The forest has become dangerous."

He breathed in deeply, valiantly trying to stop a smile creeping to his face, "However, if you were to travel there, I would secure your leave to enter."

"Thank you, Master Elf, but I would never ask it of you."

His eyes sharply narrowed he shot back to her. "Why would you not?"

"I have not the right to ask," she said abashed.

He frowned, "Nonsense. If you care to see my homeland, then I would do all to ensure you do. Do you not think your interest pleases me? It would be my honour."

"Then I am grateful," she conceded with a warm smile. "Though I do not see a future where I am likely to go."

A pang touched his heart. "Because you cannot go alone?"

"That is one reason, yes."

His heart rattled and his nerves pressed him to take caution, but he said it anyway. "If you gave me the leave to do so, I would take you wherever your heart sought to venture."

His caution was founded; her gaze breaking from his, her head lowering. "You are too kind with your time. I could never be so greedy to take so much of it."

Taking a moment to catch his breath, Legolas allowed the right words come to him. "To look through your eyes upon that which has become mundane, would be to see the world anew."

Eryndes lifted her head, her embarrassment fading and a small smile touching her face. "Then perhaps one day." With a cheeky lift to her lips, she plucked up the milk puddings and biscuits and set them before them.

With a wry smile, Legolas took his share before she changed her mind.

For a good few minutes they both lounged under the shade, slowly sipping the last of the mead and partaking of the sweets.

Watching her gazing out at the meadow, he schooled his features and reached back behind, stroking the tree once more.

"You cannot trick me a second time," she said without looking at him.

"A pity." He rested down on his elbow, watching her setting aside her pudding pot. He looked at the half eaten dessert curiously; she'd said it was her favourite? "Then what else shall you do to entertain?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Smirking, he enjoyed the flush to her cheeks. "I am asking for a song."

"Picnic custom dictates one must pay for songs or to win them with games," she beamed knowingly at him, "but you will not pay a song with a song and we have no cards."

He sipped his mead slowly. She was right; he would not sing, no matter what she offered. Sitting back further, Legolas took in their surrounds and uttered to the poets flow;

"There is another sky,

Ever serene and fair.

And there is another sunshine,

Though it be darkness there;

Never mind faded forests,

Never mind silent fields -

Here is a little forest,

Whose leaf is ever green;

Here is a brighter garden,

Where not a frost has been;

In its unfading flowers

I hear the bright bee hum:

Please, dear lady,

To thy garden doth sung."

Eryndes' broad smile turned into giggles as he finished, her hand covering her mouth, "Did you just make that up?"

He eyed her through hooded eyelids, "You think I would speak words not my own?" Truly, he wished she wouldn't hide her mouth when she laughed. "If my payment is worthy," he said slyly, gesturing to her with a humble bow, "I do believe I am owed a song."

"Oh, very well," she laughed, and went to take another sip of mead.

"Now?"

The cup stopped before her lips. "A moment for pity's sake! I have to think of-"

"Why not the song you were singing the day we met," he challenged, "I am quite certain you remember which-"

"On the river bank I wandered one day," she sung quickly, her whole face becoming pink and not from the warmth of the day. "Where the violet waters run

There the yellow petals of primrose doth lay

'Neath the warmth of the morning sun.

Golden light, gentle rain falling from above,

With a beauty beyond compare,

Sweeter than the violin the language of love,

In the heart of his true love fair.

There he spied a fair young maid

Like a rose in its richest bloom,

And her raven hair with blossom arrayed

Filled the air with a sweet perfume

This jewel bright, this flower fair

She consented to be his bride.

A hundred years passed still none compare

To her loveliness by his side.

Silver stream, summer song calling from above

With a beauty beyond compare,

Sweeter than the violin the language of love,

In the heart of his true love fair."

He snorted and shook his head.

"What is wrong?" she demanded, her fingers absentmindedly play with Aragorn's necklace.

"What price must I pay?"

Her fingers around the white gem stopped, "For what?"

"For the song I seek."

Gathering her skirts with care, she rose to her feet, "Why not a kingdom?"

He stared up at her and didn't move to follow. "You trade your song for a kingdom?"

"Well if you have no kingdoms to spare," she rebuked flicking her loose hair over her shoulder, "whatever song I choose will have to suffice."

He held her eyes until she finally huffed, "Are we not to continue?"

"Perhaps not," he rolled onto his back, the grass beneath him soft and cushioning. He pillowed his head with his hands, "Perhaps here I will remain until I get what I bargained for."

"The bargain was for a song. I cannot be blamed if the song was not to your liking."

When she bent to pick up the bag, he discreetly admired the showing curve. "It was a fine song," he told her, returning to her face before she noticed. "May I have another?" he asked with a fair amount of cheek.

Her face tightened, her fingers fidgeting with the bag straps. "Should we not continue if we are to make the homestead before dark?"

"There is no need for haste," he eyed her from his prone position. "To leave now we will arrive two hours before nightfall."

"I thought you would want to continue? Attend to your unfortunate duty?"

His shoulders shrugged against the ground, "A pretty meadow on a radiant day? A fine meal with fair company? I am rarely offered so ample reasons for leisure." His brow rose, "Are you?"

"Well I-," She bit her lip, her eyes scanning around them, a small smile tugging at her efforts to remain stern. She turned away, "In that case, I think I will go pick at the wild flowers awhile."

His interest sparked, "You like wild flowers?"

"What woman does not?" she called over her shoulder.

On his feet in an instant and grabbing his bow and quiver pack, he relieved her of the heavy bag, her jaw slackened with an amused question.

He threw the bag over his shoulder. "Since I am refused another song, I will be content to see which flowers catch the eye of an apothecary."

0000

She snapped off another head.

"I believe you are at your limit."

Eryndes bent down again, snapping another wild daisy while he watched. Never before had he imagined watching her pick flowers would be so enjoyable.

Seeing the fine outline to her backside every time she bent helped and she did know each of their names and even if any could be consumed. Some could also be used for medicinal purposes.

She bent again, this time lower, cradling awkwardly the bundle of flowers with the other arm.

"Did I not say your kind plundered without due care?" he snickered. "Maybe you ought to leave some for next time?"

Standing upright, her eyes scanned the rocky bank and chattering stream in the bright early afternoon sunshine. "They are not just for me, but for Bjariel."

"Whom?"

"Huaen's wife? Where we will stay tonight. She loves pressing flowers. Making them into fine collages. The least we can do is bring her some pretty flowers. Unless you want to fell a boar or something? We really should have come with more to offer-"

"Very well, pick your flowers," he watched her duck down again, this time to pick at a small red burst of colour, "but how much more can you possibly carry?"

She smiled slyly back up at him then held out her plunder to him.

He crossed his arms over his chest, "My pockets are already filled to the brim with your herb collection."

"But your arms are not." She tugged at his arm with her free hand when he refused, "You will carry everything but my flowers?"

He smirked, "But they are not your flowers. They are for Bjariel-" he stopped when she gasped in surprise. "Eryndes?"

"There is a stag over there, watching us."

"I am aware."

"You are?" her eyes flicked to him then back to the stag.

"He has been watching us for a while now."

Eryndes stepped away from him in the direction of the deer. "I wonder why. We cannot poise much interest for such a proud creature."

"There are many deer in this gully. Why does this one capture your attention?"

She was now smiling at the stag standing a mere ten paces from them across the other side of the stream. "Mainly because this one is staring directly at us," she pointed out a little bothered by his lack of interest. "Can you not talk to him?"

"Eryndes," he said perhaps a little firmly. He glared directly at the stag to show his intrusion was unwelcome.

Relenting reluctantly, she returned her attention to him, "You do not like deer?"

The stag darted forward, clearly not understanding Legolas' warning; jumping cleanly over the stream and rocks, to land on the grass directly in front of them. Eryndes watched in amazement as the beast lowered his head, his massive antlers down so low they made markings in the soft ground. Then picking up his head he bounded off back into the forest.

Eryndes gaped. "How odd. Did I just fall into dream? Why did he do that?"

"It is odd behaviour," he agreed with her in a deliberate tone of disinterest.

She continued to gape at him, her brow furrowing and lips tightening.

He shrugged and was aggravated by his sudden awkwardness, "I agree, it is odd." Now was not the time to explain his family's spiritual connection to elk and deer. And if that stag ever showed his face again, Legolas would truly make his feelings known.

"Perhaps you would have known his intent if you had but spoken to him," she grumbled.

"I can talk to beasts, they however, cannot speak back," he explained a little hotly, "If they could, do you not think eating them may become a little uncomfortable."

"I did not think of it like that-," she stopped. "Wait, you do not eat venison or elk."

He raised an eyebrow in question. "Just because I do not eat them does not mean I want to speak to them."

Eryndes fidgeted with the flowers in her arms, "I cannot understand how you would not like venison. But then I suppose, if you do not like ale, fermented beans, soured cream, jellied eels, pickled tongue, dried kidneys, blue cheese-"

"I promise; the next stag we see," he growled, wishing she'd drop the topic, "I will recite the tale of your choice."

She did not respond. He no longer held her attention. Something had caught her eye and she moved away from him towards the bushes.

"What are you looking at now?" he demanded, his keen eyes seeing nothing worthy of note or her apparent fixation. He could not help but be a little irritated at being so easily and willingly ignored.

She didn't answer, transfixed, she began walking away from the stream over to the bushes and trees just up the rise. Using her free hand to hold her skirt, she gracefully knelt down on the short grass by the bushes. Reaching into the heavily foliaged but short bush, she picked a flower and bought it to her nose. Turning back to him she smiled, "Chamomile."

"Chamomile?" he asked, coming up beside her to study the bush and its plentiful flowers, his irritation forgotten. The elf in him appreciated the simple beauty of the white petals and vibrant yellow centre though he did fail to understand her excitement.

"A very useful flower," she explained, handing him the flower head, "I am surprised these are blooming so late in the season."

He took the flower from her and placed it in his palm, looking closely. Feeling her eyes on him, he looked up to see her waiting for his conclusion. "All I see is a flower. I agree, pretty, and makes a decent tea-"

She tried to take it back, but he pulled away quicker. "Well?" he pressed smugly, "Why did you so rudely ignore me to look at a flower no more special than the dozens already picked?"

"It is medicine. A delicious tea yes but mostly chamomile is used to treat any number of ailments."

He regarded the flower in his hand again. "Truly?"

"Alas it would not cure your spoilt taste."

With a snort he handed it back to her.

"No, no," she turned back to the bush, "We should take as many as we can. And try to get a few good cuttings to plant back home."

Around them, everything went quiet-

"We should call the horses so I can fill my saddlepack-"

Legolas' eyes and ears scanned about them. Nothing seemed amiss-

"-of course, once we reach Huaen's farm, they will need to be set for drying-"

The air was stilled. Then he heard it-

"Huaen and Bjariel won't mind at all tending the drying-"

What he heard was . . . odd. He touched her shoulder, "Eryndes?" he quietened her with his whisper.

Her carefree words stopped and whispered, "What is it?"

"I do not know." He took her arm and urged her back to her feet, his senses still scanning around them. The noise grew; rhythmic pounding, but not hoof or boot.

"Master Elf?" Eryndes gasped, the taint of fear entering her tone.

Dread was vastly filling his stomach. "Something approaches."

"'Something'? Orcs? These woods are supposed to be safe-"

"Shh," he tried to calm her increasingly frightened words. He trained his focus to the forest edge just to the north of them. "Not orcs. Maybe just a creature. If we remain quiet it may pass us by."

She edged in closer to him. "Should we not try to hide?"

The rhythm changed. So did the direction, and the speed.

Reacting instantly Legolas breathed in then sent out a short distinctive whistle. With a wave of despair over his own foolishness, Legolas dropped the food bag to the ground and pulled his bow from his back.

Eryndes' face paled.

What had he done? They were miles from aid and he, a lone elf, was all that stood between a defenseless woman and whatever now tore its way through the forest in their direction.

"Get behind me."

Panic filled her eyes. "Shouldn't we try to run?" she begged.

The speed of the pounding was conclusive. They couldn't outrun it. At least they both couldn't.

Aglarebon and Banjo were at least two minutes hard gallop away. And galloping they were but too far away.

"Get behind me," he grimly repeated.

This time she quickly did as he bade, just as the forest ahead of them broke apart. Foliage and brush was torn aside, and a beast beyond anything he'd seen emerged at full stride.

"Keep behind me!" he commanded firmly, edging them closer to the bushes and trees. Something so large, going that fast surely wouldn't turn so nimbly and he could use the trees as cover.

The black creature let out a loud cry, like the battle cry of an orc. But this was no orc.

Legolas took another pace towards the trees. Leaving his bow and arrow in place with one hand, he reached behind and took a firm grasp of her arm.

He was almost ready to throw her behind the tree when the creatures pace changed. The pounding begun to slow.

"Master El-?"

"I do not know," he hushed her. "Remain behind me." Letting go of her, he held his armed bow at full extension in clear warning.

The beast came to a stop not closer than three meters from them. Then stood up, rising up on two legs. It was as tall as Legolas, but thickly built and hairy, a mix of ape and man. Its eyes, skin and hair were black as a moonless night. Its protruding jaw and skull massive, its large teeth yellow.

Legolas narrowed his eyes and aimed for the middle of its black eyes. "I warn you; back away!"

The beast made no reaction or show of understanding. Instead it tilted its wide head, its eyes trying to see behind him.

"(Stop. We have no quarrel)," he tried Sindarin.

The beast eyes narrowed at him, then shifted the other way to see behind him-

Legolas stepped back into its gaze. "(Back away)," he warned again, this time in Quenya.

The creature was somewhat intelligent, that much was clear. Yet there were hundreds of languages it could speak, if it had the capability to speak at all.

The beast stepped away to the side. Again, he stepped back in front to hide her, "Keep behind me," he growled at her.

"I am," came her frightened whisper. "Should you not kill it?"

He eyed the beast carefully, "I do not know of what it is capable. Never have I seen its like."

The beast started to rise to full height, its muscles beginning to tense-

"(I will kill you)," he snarled in the language of the East.

The beast stopped and bared its teeth, "(You speak my tongue, creature?)

"(I speak many tongues)," he raised the bow to track the middle of its head, "(We have no quarrel-)"

"(Are you going to eat that)?" The beast lowered its head, "(Allow me to share and we will have no quarrel)."

His hands tightened around his bow, "(Back away)."

The beast cocked its head, "(It's scrawny but you will share it)."

"(She is not for eating)!"

"What is it saying?"

His stomach dropped. "He wants to eat you."

She clung to his back, "Only me?"

"He thinks you are my prey."

The beast threw back its head and out came a loud hacking he took for laughing, "(My mistake! I see the scrawny one is female. I also see she is yours)!" The beast took a single step back and waved its massive hand, "(Go on. I will let you live if you pass her for me. I've not had the pleasure of a female in many moons-)."

His arrow shot passed its ear and another took its place on his bow quicker than the beast could react. "(You will have nothing)!" he bellowed so loud his voice echoed repeatedly off the mountains.

A growl, deep like the ice tigers of the frozen far north filled the forest, (I shall enjoy eating you)," its eyes looked at Eryndes, "(but not before I ravish your mate before your eyes. And if she does survive me, I won't kill her before I eat her too)!"

A coldness numbed him. A battle between fear and rage tore at his focus. "Step back. When I tell you, you will run, you will not look back. You will not stop until you reach the horses-"

"Master Elf-"

"Do you understand me?!" he roared, images of the beast's intentions flashing through his head, sickening his stomach and shook at his extremities. His vision clouded until all he saw was the beast.

The touch of her hand vanished. "Yes," came her small trembling reply.

"You get to the horses and head west back along the track. Understood?"

"Yes."

The smallest relief entered his rage. He took a few slow steps towards the beast. "(You should have heed my warning and moved on)," satisfied by the distance away from Eryndes, he replaced the arrow. Tossing his bow to he cared not where, Legolas drew his knives, "(Now I will tear you apart)."

The beast laughed-

"Run!"

The beast anticipated his attack, just as he expected. Dodging the massive fist aimed at his head, he ducked low, tumbling then bouncing back to his feet. The creature swung at him but Legolas was quicker, twisting on the balls of his feet, he easily avoided the strike. Instinct told him to end this quickly. He might've advanced swiftly, gone for the heart or take off its arm and demand surrender.

His rage demanded revenge.

Legolas reversed the grip of one knife and stabbed. With a roar of pain, two of the creature's fingers fell to the ground.

The beast circled around him, gaining speed. Its intent was clear; the beast had the greater bulk. At speed, it could flatten him to the ground. With a growl of his own, Legolas leapt to the side. With his knife held out before him and low. The beast was able to evade his attack but it did slow.

Legolas gained, stalking in closer and not allowing the beast room to charge.

"(Ravish her)?!" he snarled in Easterling, the vision of that beast throwing her to the ground. His slashed hard at the image, his blade deflected by the creature but not enough, nicking its thigh. He saw the beast's club hands tearing at Eryndes' clothing, forcing himself upon her, his name she screamed for help-

Without care for himself, he lunged again, spinning down low, his blade slicing in deeply across the dark abdomen, spilling blood, stinking fluids and innards. Through the haze of blood rage, he heard the beast's shriek of pain.

"(Eat her)?!" he wrenched its dislocated arm back and kicked with all his might, shattering bone. The beast's was howling in agony but Legolas didn't stop. He kicked again, then threw the beast down onto its knees.

"(Pity your death is not longer)," he hissed down into its ear then shoved his knife into its neck, sinking in deep, all the way to the hilt. "(Be a feast for worms)!" Grabbing the creatures scalp and pulling up, he yanked the hilt around, cutting, tearing, ripping its head off its neck with unnatural gargling sound. Red blood splattered and soaked. In hatred and anger, he threw the head as far away as he could. It bounced along the forest floor with a dull thud, rolling away into the thick scrub.

His vision came back into focus. The late afternoon sunshine filtered through the trees, sounds of the meadow returning to his ears. The wind lightly swept through his hair. He felt the creature's blood cooling on his skin and clothes.

Sensing eyes upon him, he looked up-

And all breath left him.

Eryndes.

She stood, still and eyes wide, exactly in the same spot. She hadn't run.

His heart stopped. The world stopped. Transfixed as if caught in deep mud, he stared in horror. She'd stayed. She'd been in direct danger. She'd seen him tear into the beast. She'd seen it all. His every muscle strained beneath his skin. He felt sick.

She'd seen the complete ruthlessness which long ago earned him infamous names like Legolas the Merciless, Greenleaf the Destroyer.

"Why did you not run?" he choked. "I told you to run."

Flinching, her gaze lifted from his blood soaked clothes and skin to his face. There was no warmth or recognition.

She'd seen the monster he was.

"(Answer me)!" howled the pain in his heart.

But all he got was another flinch.

Backing up, Legolas stumbled away from her. Marching to the stream, he waded in knee deep and scrubbed. His fingernails dug, his scrubbing frantic. He heard and saw nothing until the last drop of blood had been lifted from his boots, clothes and person. Next he slashed his blades through the water, scouring the handles until they too were clean.

Throwing himself back up the grassy bank, he emptied the water from his boots then made his way back to where Eryndes still stood. Her head was down and she refused to see him.

It took two attempts to fill his breath before he could whistle his chest so tight. But he no longer possessed the will to speak. Aglarebon came across the few metres of grass.

With both of them mounted, he didn't spare Aglarebon and Banjo, keeping their pace hard the remaining miles to the homestead.

0000

Huaen's farm was so craftily situated anyone not knowing it's location would miss it. However Legolas barely acknowledged the fact. He pushed Aglarebon down the hidden trail, which after a few turns, lead out into a superbly situated farm. Sheltered from the winds by the dark rocky mountains and rich with sunlight, the farm sat on what must have been the flattest ground to be found. Though the cottage, barn and fencing all appeared weatherworn, it was all well kept.

Pulling up, the farmer Huaen and his wife, Bjariel, came out of their home into the late afternoon. The air was already cooling rapidly and the elderly couple bid them forth from under their thick coats and mittens.

After they'd dismounted, Eryndes introduced him to them, to which he politely inclined his head. He then spoke the words he had long planned. He told them about his discovery of Huaen's cousin in Angmar. He spared the wife the nastier details and apologised for not being able to bring the Dunedain back home for proper burial.

Huaen bowed his head with thanks for Lord Sindar's coming all the way out there to deliver this news in person. He then bid both Eryndes and he stayed the night.

Legolas accepted this with sincere gratitude.

Bjariel stepped in then, pointing to the barn and ordering her husband to care for the horses, and took Eryndes by the waist and guided her into the cottage. Looking back at Legolas, she screwed up her aging face, "Surely you can aid my husband, my lord."

Huaen took Banjo's reins, "I must apologise for my wife's tongue, my lord-"

"The Dunedain call me Sindar. I would be grateful if you were to also."

Huaen and Sindar lead the horses towards the barn together, "Sindar then. My wife has little patience for propriety. But you will have a decent goat stew and my best cider."

Once in the barn, Legolas told Huaen about the ape-like creature he and Eryndes was set upon. He tried to urge the old man to consider giving up his farm and moving his wife to the safety of Carthal.

Huaen smiled and shook his head, "There are many creatures migrating into the west to escape the evil of the east. The wife and I have worked these fields for a hundred and fifty years. If our time is to be at an end, then our end will be in these fields."

Legolas frowned at the man. "Forgive me for speaking uncivil but this creature was without honour or decency. Your wife-"

"Rest assured, my lord Sindar," Huaen patted his shoulder then closed the stall behind Banjo, "We'd never be taken alive."

Night in the mountains was cold. Far colder than the already freezing nights down on the flats. Huaen and his wife kept a sizable fire fed with plenty of dry wood. Bjariel served them a large meal of steaming hot stew and warmed cider. Eryndes quietly mentioned to her that 'lord Sindar doesn't suffer the cold' but Bjariel took no notice and promised him a stack of blankets would be supplied for his assigned armchair in the living room. She then went on to emphasise Eryndes' bed would be up the stairs, in a room on the other side of her and her husbands. And one had to go through their room first to get to hers.

Eryndes didn't mention Bjariel's precautions towards preserving her virtue were unwarranted.

Legolas didn't correct her either. Elven morality notwithstanding, it was far from necessary when Eryndes wouldn't even raise her head to look at him.

Instead he thanked her for the blankets and ate his plate clean; not because he was hungry for he had no appetite. It was the polite thing to do. He did however beg to be released from a second helping, with the assurance that the stew was just as tasty as Huaen promised.

After supper, Huaen engaged him in conversation about the happenings at Carthal, continuing into the mundane but civil conversation about farming in the mountains. Legolas paid him due attention but all the while wishing to escape.

His heart was heavy.

During the course of the evening his host must have guessed as much, for not long after the first post-supper pot of tea was finished, Huaen gathered up his wife from Eryndes' side and lead her off to bed.

Of course with Bjariel's screwed up face of warning directed at Legolas.

After suffering three and a third minutes of silence from Eryndes, Legolas shot up to his feet, bid her 'good evening' and made his way outside.

The crisp air and white moonlight greeted him. He didn't go too far. Just far enough down along one of the fence-lines to be considered 'alone'.

There he was allowed to sink into his fury, berate his lack of control during his battle with the ape-beast, and grieve what was surely the loss of Eryndes.

The past few weeks had gone so well for him, and with the success of their day today, he'd begun to believe most fervently in their possible union. He felt it in his very soul; he'd found the one he'd love and wed. He'd even begun musing about their nuptial-furlough; he'd never met his kin in Lothlorien and Eryndes so fondly recalled the tales Aragorn told her as a child . . .

That dream was now deemed impossible. His father was right. What did he know of love? Was a heartless warrior, bereft of all tenderness and consumed by emptiness but concealing it by haughty vanity, ever to be worthy of a wife?

What did he truly possess to make her an offer? And now she'd born witness to the very worst of his quality. How could she ever see beyond the monster?

His attention spiked and he was drawn out of his thoughts by a movement in the night.

Legolas eyes squeezed shut. Was she coming to end their acquaintance? How would his heart endure?

He heard her walk around the outside of the cottage. He smelt the sweetness of her scent and the fragrant tea she brought with her.

She came to his side, quiet as she'd been all that evening and held out the mug of tea.

He took the tea with a nod of gratitude but didn't drink. He doubted he could've stomached it anyway. However he did hold the mug tight as if it were a lifeline, as well as stopping his hands from fidgeting. He shuffled on the spot waiting for her to speak.

"I am so sorry," came her voice, small and uncertain, not like the sweet warm character he'd come to expect.

Slowly he turned to her, his face furrowing even further seeing her tentative. He blinked, forcing his lips to open. "You are sorry?"

"Oh please let me apologise!" she broke, "I don't know what came over me. I wanted to do as you said. I was just so scared. Desperately I wanted to run but couldn't move-"

"Eryndes," his gut wrenched horribly. "You believe I am angry with you?"

"It was I who stopped for the chamomile. You were protecting us. You risked your life to give me a chance to run . . ." she looked down at her hands, "I understand your anger; I didn't run and you could have been h-hurt-"

"(You understand nothing)," he backed away from her.

Her silence lingered but she followed, keeping in close. Her innocent blue eyes searched his face, waiting for his explanation.

"I am not angry. I am ashamed," he pained at length, "for you to have seen this . . . side of me; an ugliness never again to be concealed beyond your sight."

The distant sounds of the insects filled his ears and it felt an eternity before the stillness in the air changed.

A warm touch feathered on his cheek and drew him back to her. Such a potential show of affection should've pleased him but he dared not and kept focused on the space above her.

"You-saved-my-life!"

The cold steel in her voice belied the tenderness of her touch and his eyes dropped down to hers.

The steel was not only in words but in the hard line of her mouth. "Killing is ugly. Death is ugly. I am not so naive to believe otherwise. That beast deserved far worse than the brutal end upon your knives. I certainly entertain no pity; only gladness. I thank you a thousand times for what you did."

Having said her piece, her touch fell away and she stood back to a respectable distance. "My only lament, my _shame_ , is with my own actions," she flinched, "Or lack thereof. I may have been cause to distract you. You might have been hurt . . . k-killed."

For many beatings of his heavy heart, Legolas remained utterly still. Her words and concern for him attempted to break through his isolation and soothe. The tingling from where she'd touched him spread over his face and down his neck, down to depths he know not where.

But she was not yet done. Not by the blazing fire still burning in her eyes.

"This 'ugliness' you can no longer conceal? I ask you, what warrior does not? A life spent fighting evil, and you think I, with all my life surrounded by rangers, find it unexpected?"

"Knowing to expect is not the same as seeing," he breathed, "By my life I would have spared you-"

"Why?" she demanded. "Why?"

Under her fiery scrutiny he found himself fumbling for the right words. "I-I never wish to be lowered in your esteem-"

"Because you kill or my knowing you are apt at it?"

Squeezing his fists, he turned away from her. She didn't understand.

"My esteem is not so fickle," again she followed him, "I would watch you slaughter ten thousand monsters never to think less of you. You are a warrior. Do you think me less for amputating a child's leg to save from gangrene? We each attend our duty."

Again her words were trying to balm his hurt. Yet stubbornly he shook them away. "Precisely," he squeezed his fists, "I 'am' a warrior, as ruthless as you have now seen. This is all I can claim to be. Whatever I once might have been, this-this was my choice. I chose my duty to be the death of others. Perhaps now I seek-I hope there can be more to my purpose, and in your presence I can at least for a time-" he took a deep breath, "I feel I can be more than an instrument of destruction. I would grieve the loss-" He stopped when she grasped his arm.

"A warrior and nothing more?! Can you truly be so foolish?!"

Lifting his chin, he bore the brunt of her austerity head on.

"You are no instrument of destruction and I won't ever allow you to say so again," she blazed, her grip on him tightening. "Tell me what ruthlessness decides to spend his time telling tales to children? What monster possesses the charity to befriend the unsound Foruyndes without ploy or ridicule?"

She wasn't understanding. "That is different-"

"What ugliness defends women and babies from the evils of men?" She went on, her back as rigid as the iron to her eyes, "Who sits up night after night to companion a heartbroken young man? Volunteers to aid women in work most men think beneath them-?"

He tried to step back, "I would hardly call-"

She followed him, "Joust says you're teaching him to swim-"

Giving up retreating, he faced her again, "Inability to swim is dangerous-"

"And teaches the likes of poor Triw to read-"

Her persistence was beginning to break through his fury at himself. But didn't she understand he didn't want that? "Triw's reading is vital-"

"Who-who takes Faron's challenge for absolutely no reward?" She stood right up to him, her finger pointing into his chest, her eyes blazing like the sun, "Who comes here, a place not his home, to defend those who are not his people? Who rides out into the far west to honour the death of a man you never knew? Just a warrior? You would have to be the most honourable, kind-hearted 'fool' I had the fortune to know! How dare you think any less!" So worked up, she took a many quick breaths to regain herself. "You think seeing this side of you would tarnish my esteem, then you truly are a fool."

Left without words, Legolas stared down at her, blood pounding in his ears. She wasn't just consoling; she actually believe it. Believed every word she was practically shouted in his face.

And staring at her conviction, so fierce, so unwavering in the face of his defiance, the cares of the world faded from sight leaving naught but a mortal woman in all her goodness, voicing her most fervent belief in him . . . It was worth everything; all the world's gold and gems, all the light, beauty and friendships, every battle victory.

What he would not do to keep such faith alive, to witness everlasting the zeal of her belief? To live up to the esteem in her eyes? Even if it took an eternity, he pledged at once it was what he wanted above all things.

Then he felt it, the burning of his heart. The shattering of his soul. Then strengthening, like rebirth, feeling it down into the very depths of his soul. And he knew;

He was in love.

So overwhelming, exhilarated by the revelation, the burning and brightening every corner of his spirit, he dropped his head lest she might spy it in his eyes. "(I may be a fool but you are kindness beyond sense)."

"It is not kindness. Or beyond sense. It is the truth."

The burning of his heart spread to his face. "I am not worthy of this praise."

Her hold on his arm tightened, "If not you, then there are none."

Encouraged by her words, he bravely raised his head and looked at her through the corners of his eyes. She stood out in the darkness, the one his heart chose to love; a woman of great kindness and warmth. Soft yet vibrant, spirited and unspoiled, and lovely in the pale moonlight. But she was human and blind to the sight of love in an elf's eyes.

He wasn't certain if he was to be glad or disappointed.

"There is so much to life I have yet to experience. War is all I have ever known. But in my heart," he carefully revealed, Aragorn's warning no more than a strained whisper at the edge of his mind. For even her lips shone in the moon's soft glow. And they spoke silently to him, promising. "I do . . . yearn for more."

Calling . . .

"Perhaps that is why you came to Carthal?" her regard softening, a gentle smile sneaking across her face. "Even in an unforgivable land like this, there is joy of life and purpose far beyond the end of a sword?"

"Perhaps," he admitted just above a whisper. The draw of his siren held him captive, helpless, a bee to blossoms, a dragon to gold. Compelling. Bewitching. Although unmoving, the distance between them suddenly seemed to shrink.

All he needed was dip his head, be willing to entrust his love to her-

"Lord Sindar? Where are you?"

Whipping around, Eryndes waved even though the old woman couldn't possibly see them in the darkness. "We are over here."

Legolas stared at the line of her hair, the roundness of her ears, and felt the night air crush him. It was an effort to draw breath.

"Bring Eryndes back inside. It's far too cold out there for her!"

Bjariel's scolding call pulled him further back to his senses. He was being impatient. They weren't even courting yet. She knew not the way of his heart.

This was not the time to offer his love.

Given another few minutes in privacy, however, he could perhaps broach the subject of formal courtship-

"This minute!"

Perhaps not.

He was patient. He could wait. Rallying his spirits, he held out his arm with a wry smile, "Best I do as told. She is a scary woman."

Eryndes snickered taking his arm, "Bjariel's scarier than Sali?"

"Sali?" he snorted, leading her towards the light from the homestead, albeit quite slowly. "Sali is a mere brook to the Anduin. An . . . 'odd' brook but no more frightening."

Eryndes whispered a sigh, "Oh, how I long to gaze upon of the Great River. You must have seen it hundreds of times. Will you tell me what is it like?"

"Well," he allowed himself to become smug, "It is a long river."

When she rebuked him with a tap to his shoulder and a demand for him to be serious, Legolas' spirit soared like they'd not for a very long time. Eryndes had witnessed the worst part of him, parts he'd never have wished to show her.

She saw the monster within him. It didn't scare her. She wasn't disgusted.

No, instead she called him a fool and perhaps so he was.

And what he didn't know about love and tenderness, perhaps one day she'd be willing to teach him.

He covered her hand with his. That night he told her everything he knew about the Anduin, their discussion then shifting from topic to topic, tales and anecdotes, passing well into the night.


	20. Choices (Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Thanks to all those who reviewed, favoured, followed and kudos-ed. Due to suggestions, I have begun replying to reviews on FF.net. If I fail, feel free to pelt me with rotten fruit.
> 
> ** Thank you for your patience. It has been hard to find the time to return to Middle Earth these last few months. This is part one of either a two or three part chapter. As many faithful readers know, I don’t like posting the ‘parts’ separately, but am because I haven’t posted anything for months! 
> 
> *** A two minute demonstration with an ex-special forces soldier was astounding to experience, but laughably no way enough to make me any sort of authority. Please forgive anything I get wrong.
> 
> **** As always, thank you to Frannel for being my writing buddy. Couldn’t write anything without you!

 

 

**Dramatis Personæ**

Aglarebon – Woodland Stallion, Sindar's horse, 6yo

Aragorn/Strider – Male, Chieftain of the Dúnedain, 86 yo

Baradon/Sculls – Male, Elite Ranger Scout, 27yo

Bregol/Web - Male, Ranger, 23yo

Camaenor/Vice - Male, Master of Arms, 79yo

Cordoves/Swan – Female, Elite Ranger Scout, 63yo

Eryndes – Female, Mistress of Carthal & Apothecary, 47yo

Faron/Dusk – Male, Hunting Master & Elite Ranger Scout, 81yo

Foruyndes – Female, Mistress of Stores, 184yo

Gueniel – Female, Midwife, 61yo

Gell - Male, Commander of Rangers, 56yo

Laeron/Wren – Male, Elite Ranger Scout, 17yo

Lobordir/Joust – Male, Master of Stables & Elite Ranger Scout, 59yo

Mydedis – Female, Mistress of Housekeeping, 175yo

Mereniel/Ivy – Female, Elite Ranger Scout (Pregnant), 39yo

Nestdôl – Male, Master of Healing, Elder Master of Carthal, 178yo

Romon – Male, Elder Master of Carthal, 158yo

Sali – Female, Mistress of Kitchen, 193yo

Sindar/Master Elf /Legolas – Sinda Male, Prince of the Woodland Realm, 2976yo

Trîw/Jester – Male, Elite Ranger Scout, 35yo

Úrion/Bear – Male, Second in Command, 126yo   


  
  


* * *

  
  


Choices (Part One)

 

He found her sitting alone outside at one of the larger tables by the kitchen and ancient cherry . The afternoon sun shone bright and yet the air remained frosty; within the elapse of a few days the weather had shifted for the worst. Upon their return from Huaen’s farm, Legolas and Eryndes rode through winter’s first snowfall one day after enjoying warm sunshine. Sudden and extreme as it was known here in the far north, the weather sought to weed out the lesser saplings from the strong.

The Dúnedain were no lesser saplings. All of Carthal’s people moved with purpose and no single complaint to be heard. There was much to be done after-all. Around the great wall, Camaenor and his craftsman worked diligently to affix the newly crafted couillards and onagers to their positions. Down behind the wall stood in silent menace thirty new ballistaes and another twenty small trebuchets. The ballistaes were of Camaenor’s own design, delivering repeating bolts while being wheeled and light enough to reposition during battle. A design even the Dwarves were sure to acknowledge.

The armoury, though already fully stocked, took to their work and had churned out a double hundred more spears, bows, shields and an army worth of arrows. 

Carthal was still not as battle ready as Legolas would’ve preferred. However in addition to the rework done on the damaged parts of the wall, it was indeed something.

Their were some amongst the Carthal Dúnedain who raised eyebrows at Úrion and Sindar’s call to fortify over the passed few weeks since Aragorn’s departure. Despite those raised brows, folk did as bidden and when Aragorn did return with the expected hundred additional rangers, Carthal should greet their chieftain proud and ready for war.

The war however was not to begin this day.

Standing somewhat discreetly, Legolas watched her tend her trade; mixing pressed herb oil and like with waxes and preserving alcohol. 

If his mind wasn’t set firm he might’ve offered aid and happily endured many lengthy explanations of herb and oil and the ailments each cured. But his mind was set. It had been set the moment the ape-creature tore through the forest towards them merely four days earlier.

Out of the corner of his eye a group of women came out of the smoking shed, carrying whole legs of smoked ham and sausage strings ready for the wedding feast less than a week hence. Even with the preparations for war the Dúnedain fully intended to celebrate joyfully the union between Baradon and Celegeth. Legolas truly could not fault them, for why should battles be won if life was not lived?

The women moved in convoy, ever loud and eager to snoop in the business of others, continuing their way towards the manor. Soon he would have an audience. 

“Eryndes?” he called quickly.

At once her head came up and looked at him warmly, “Master Elf. What are you doing standing there?”

“(Come haste. Before the women see your abduction).”

Though surprised, she forgot her medicines and joined him, “You are abducting me?”

“Come,” he took her hand and matched her out and away from the gardens to an empty grain field.

“What is the purpose of your abduction?” she laughed, almost stumbling trying to keep up with him, “and to the barley field? It is soon to snow again.”

“I have decided you will learn to defend yourself.” Far enough to be out of direct sight, he released her hand to unbuckle his quiver-pack and tossed it to a safe distance. “Let me see you punch me.”

She waited for the joke. “I beg your pardon?”

“I am going to educate you.”

Her smile lacked conviction, “Oh, Master Elf, I am honoured by the offer but-”

“It is not an offer. Do not argue.”

Her jaw slackened, “I . . . you . . . you cannot . . .”

Legolas gave no quarter and dared her to refuse.

“I see; you don’t understand. I am not built for-” she waved her hand, trying her gentler reasoning on him, “fighting and-and weapons. I was never any good at the games either-”

“Eryndes,” he imposed ever his father's son. With due care for civility, he took the edge of her woollen shawl and then raised an eyebrow when she didn't yield the garment. “Do not waste your breath. Trust I will not be swayed and promise you will indeed need your breath.”

Her eyes flicked back at the manor. He waited, daring her to walk away. 

She didn’t. Just as he knew she wouldn’t and he tossed her shawl on top of his weapons. 

“Surely you have far more important matters to attend-”

“Punch me,” Legolas tapped the spot between his brows, “right here. As hard as you can.”

She gaped like he was mad, “I would rather eat my own head.”

Tapping the spot again, he kept his tone firm, “Eryndes. Hit me.”

“Never!”

“Because you fear hurting me? You cannot.”

“Master Elf, have your senses gone south? I would ‘ _ never’ _ strike you.”

He waited, patiently and so did she. Until finally he sniggered, “I can wait forever. Can you?”

She growled under her breath.

“Simply try.”

Exhaling sharply, Eryndes drew back and swung. He easily caught her hand with a cluck of his tongue, “Did Aragorn not show you how to make a fist?”

“Of course not,” she defended indignantly. “I tried to strike my brother once and my mother came after me with a broom.”

Moving her thumb to the outside, he held up her fist, “Drive through the first two knuckles. Try again.”

She swung again, again he caught it, “Harder. Use your hips.”

“My hips?”

He demonstrated. “As a women you do not have the strength in your upper body and so must compensate.”

She tried again. “Harder.”

Again. “Harder.”

“Harder!” 

With a bit to her lower lip and serious effort to her features, she swung with all her might.

This time he kept his arms loose at his sides and didn’t block. 

Her fist smacked right between his eyes. 

Eryndes was shrieking before he hit the ground. “Oh, why did you do that?! Are you alright? Please tell me you are alright. Why did you do that?”

Legolas couldn’t help it. An irrepressible laugh shook through him.

“What are-?” she stared, kneeling beside him in the grass, “Are you  _ laughing _ ?”

His laughing grew louder.

“Stop laughing!” she howled, “At once!”

He tried to smother it but couldn’t, “Why are you so upset? You did it well.”

She shot to her feet. “Why you-?”

“(Be calm),” he soothed, “(I did it on purpose).”

“But why? Are you hurt?” 

The outrage on her face was humorous and he started laughing again.

“Stop laughing at me!” The iron in her demand was betrayed with her teeth sinking into her bottom lip to stop joining his laugh.

Legolas pulled himself together but kept his smirk. “I am unhurt.”

“Then get up. I do not wish for people to see I hit you.”

“Would you not be proud to be the only Dúnedain to send me to my backside?”

She growled, “Did Faron not?”

“No,” his smirk dropped, “he did not.”

“Will you please get up?”

Legolas chortled again and lounged back on his elbows, “Perhaps I like it down here. Much safer. I think perhaps Dúnedain women are too dangerous for me.”

She glowered at him then looked around them, “What would Aragorn say if he knew I hit you?”

“Offer his congratulations?”

“Master Elf!” she cried, turning back to him, “Will you stop making fun of me?”

“I was not making fun. Not wholly. I am proving a point.”

Giving up Eryndes sat down beside him on the frozen ground, fixing her skirt to hide her legs, “No-one is going to let me hit them in the face.”

“Ah, but that is not the lesson.” His tone became serious, “Anyone can be beaten if they refuse to try.”

Her fingers played with the grass, but didn’t answer. 

“Come. Did you think I could be brought down by a single punch from,” he paused with a grin, “a less than able woman?”

Though still not meeting his gaze, her shoulders did square. “Why should I ever think on such things?”

Legolas waited. Just as he'd known she wouldn't have walked away before, he knew she'd answer.

“Nay,” she admitted finally, “Nay, I did not think it possible.”

“The lesson is learnt,” he approved. “It is more than possible. There are ways to bring ‘anyone’ down if one knows how. Hitting me where you did it is the body’s instinct to do anything, even surrender to the ground to protect the head. And thus now you must wonder what other things you might be capable if you were only to try.”

Her head slowly shook, “How do I know you did not feign falling?”

“You believe I like being hit in the face? Even by you?” Impulsively he reached over and took her hand, drawing her gaze and she watched silently as he examined her knuckles. “You hit too much on the left. Your aim should be through the first two knuckles. I imagined it hurt.”

Eryndes didn't retract her hand as perhaps she should have given his boldness. 

“I suppose but I think my attention was preoccupied by your crashing to the ground.”

He chuckled quietly, his thumb grazing tenderly over her knuckles and wondered slyly if the rest of her skin was just as soft. “A new experience for us both.” But he was getting distracted. He got to his feet. Still holding her hand coaxed her to do the same. “Let us continue. Alas I do not have a mithril blade small enough to conceal on your person however Camaenor is already fashioning a knife to my strict specifications. He assures me you will find it light and quite fine.”

Defensiveness grew on her face again, “A knife? You want me to ‘carry’ a knife?”

“At all times and I shall be checking,” he commanded. She may never be able to fight off monsters, but a swift, unexpected strike with a blade from a dainty woman would kill just as much as from a warrior. Reaching down, he pulled one of his spare blades from his boot. “Before I show you how to wield a knife, first you must recognise where best to put it.”

Eryndes stared at the knife in his hand, “Where to put it in my skirts?”

The corner of his lips lifted, “Where to put it into your assailant.”

She swallowed and looked up at him in disbelief.

“Tell me,” With the tip of his knife he pointed to his chest, “What is here?”

She opened her mouth but hesitated. “H-heart?”

“Death blow from either front or back,” he approved, “however is protected by ribs and difficult for the unschooled to penetrate for the kill. Here?” Legolas tapped down lower.

“Stomach? Intestines?”

“Belly wounds are painful, immobilizing, and may kill your assailant given enough time. Here?” He tapped the inside of his upper thigh.

She shook her head a little, looking for him for the answer. Instead, he trailed the tip of his knife down his leg-

“Artery?”

He nodded encouraging, “Puncture it and your enemy could very well be dead in four minutes.”

Returning his knife high up on his thigh, he raised a brow.

Again she hesitated.

“Groin,” he supplied, “blade or blow will hurt, damage and may even paralyse your attacker long enough for escape.”

“‘ _ If _ ’ he were male.”

He showed his perfect teeth, “Most assailants will be male.”

“I had forgotten you knew so much about anatomy.”

“Knowledge is power.”

She chewed her lip, “I would not care to be so close to use this knowledge.”

“Unless you can heft a sword, close is where you must be.” He tapped his throat.

“Artery?”

“Anywhere on the neck is a favourable target. Blow or blade will injure, disable or kill however can be difficult to reach, even for a Dúnedain woman. Same with the face, head and eyes; they will gain you time but the damage would need to be significant to kill. Knees, ankles, and elbows may disable but also buy time for escape.”

There were words of protest unspoken upon her lips.

“(Speak).”

Her shoulders sagged, “I am a healer. I cannot do as you say . . . maim or. . . kill.”

“And if your life, or the life of another depended upon it? If the children were in danger?”

Lowering her eyes, it was a long pause before she muttered, “If you think I must learn . . .”

Her grim acceptance was a victory, but a bitter one. In a perfect world he’d never force even the slightest hint of violence upon her. Gladly he would’ve kept her far away from the ways of weapons and warfare. “I do,” he said consoling, his need to touch her again leading him to take her arm, running his hand down to grasp her wrist. He placed the hilt of the knife in her palm. “Now, pay attention. I will show you both armed and unarmed defense but for now, we shall begin with small blades. There are two ways to hold a knife . . .”

* * *

 

 

Idly, Eryndes did wonder when Aragorn was going to return. They’d been expected for a week now. 

Swiping her sweaty brow, she blew at the loose wisps of hair threatening to stick to her face. She had been cooped up in the healing rooms since late last evening. The harsh unpredictable northern weather finally taken its turn towards winter had also taken a few of the ranger’s into fever along with it.

Eryndes and Gueniel relieved two of the other healers just passed midnight and spent a long day in the sweltering heat of the raging fires. The next two healers were due to commence their duty in but a few more minutes.

Wiping again before a bead of sweat rolled into her eye, she carefully poured out her mother’s special heated broth into the waiting bowls.

Aragorn really should be back by now. What could be keeping him?

“This is your plan?” Sindar’s deep voice came from the door making her smile, “To avoid my teachings you conceal yourself here?”

“I should be so crafty,” Eryndes huffed despite the instant lifting of her spirits. “Alas no. The drastic switch in the weather has bought sniffles and fever.”

The quickening of her heart told her of his coming behind her in a way her ears could not. Contrary to her words, it had been days now since Sindar insistence in tutoring her and although Eryndes bore little enthusiasm, she didn’t lie to herself; she looked forward to that hour each day with a great longing.

Eryndes was quite aware of her greed when it came to Sindar. They shared meals and evening walks, impromptu conversations in the kitchen or in her gardens, but for that hour she shared his attention with no-one. Whether by Sindar’s hand or not, none disturbed them. Alone out in the frozen fields, she could imagine they were but the only two people on Earth.

Blades aside, it was more romantic to her than anything she’d known.

“Is the sickness concerning?”

Wiping her brow with the back of her hand again, she continued pouring. “Nay. At least not thus far. ‘Tis the same every start to winter’s freeze. In a week or so, our bodies shall be sound again.”

“Are you also ill?”

His troubled question gave her pause and she looked over her shoulder at him, “I am well.” Then she grimaced, remembering how hot and sweaty she was and how disheveled she must look. It was a selfish lament for even at her best, Eryndes could never hold a candle to the beauty of the elven ladies of his homeland. Sweaty or not. “We keep the fires hot in here to drive out the fever.”

Sindar didn’t look overly convinced and he edged closer to her side and peered down at the table, “I will aid you. The heat does not bother me and I cannot fall ill.”

Eryndes bit down hard on her lip to stop smiling, “I can manage and surely you have more important-”

The glance out the corners of his eye stopped her; once Sindar made up his mind . . . It was never smart to refuse him. He was prone to sulking when his good intentions went unappreciated.

It made no sense but her heart glowed for all his ‘particular’ ways which made up the man . . . the elf she loved.

And love him she did. A flower to the sun could not love as she did.

“Then if you would begin giving out a bowl to each?” she placated with a measured dash of gratitude. When Sindar offered help the heavens must open to lathered praise. With a secret shake of her head, she took a stack of fresh towels from the linen shelves. 

With a gasp, Eryndes came back to find Sindar not moved, her eyes widening at the brightly coloured filled vial being held aloft. He was inspecting it with rampant curiosity. “Please do be careful!”

His reflexes were quicker. Raising his arm higher above her reach, he sniggered at her flailing, “When am ‘I’ not careful? Was it I who dropped a sword on her foot?”

“Master Elf, that is an exceedingly rare oil!” Knowing she couldn’t reach, she still tried, sweeping up in vain effort. Darn, when did she forget he was so tall? On her tiptoes she didn’t even measure up to his eye-level. Frustrating and at the same time pleasing. Her tastes had always been for men of fine stature.

“Do you not trust me not to drop it?”

His indignance was betrayed by the twitch in his lip and Eryndes couldn’t help descending into giggles as she grabbed at his arm and pulling with all her might. He didn’t budge. Though slighter in build then the likes of Joust and Úrion, Sindar was incredibly strong. 

She could surely climb him like a tree. 

A thrill whispered, tingling beneath her belly.

Sindar switched hands, “Should I consider holding it for ransom?”

“Ransom?” she exclaimed, using his shoulders to lever her reach higher. 

“Indeed. Would the value be worth the song you refuse to sing to me?”

Flushing, she stopped to glare at him. Why did he have to keep bringing up that shameful song? “You would not!”

His widening smile was evidence enough he would.

“Are you two quite finished?” 

Eryndes stepped back away from Sindar at once. 

Gueniel stood at the doorway, arms crossed and looking exceedingly irked. “Surely the sick needn’t suffer your horseplay.” With a taut shake of her head, Gueniel swept into the room and Eryndes was spared having to answer, “Sindar, Úrion has called for you. Your scouts have signalled. Aragorn’s party approaches,” Gueniel came over and took the tray of broths Sindar had yet to put out with a hard eye at Eryndes, “You may expect them within the hour.”

Pressing the vial into her hand, Sindar silently gave a parting glance then took his leave.

“An hour?” Eryndes’ heart sank when Sindar wasn’t to be seen. One hour? One hour and it would all end. She swallowed against the grief rising in her throat. “If you can remain? I must get cleaned up.”

Gueniel waved her away, “Go. But upon your return-”

“You will scold me?” Eryndes put the vial back to its high and secure rack with a deep breath and left the healing rooms for her chambers to wash.

 

* * *

 

“Not only your foolery below stairs but what’s this hear about personal instruction from Sindar?”

Eryndes smoothed out her skirt for the fourth time and muttered, “I was not given much choice.”

“Your dress is fine,” Gueniel elbowed her, “And are you saying Sindar forced you?”

“Oh no,” she straightened her arms at her sides to keep her hands away from her dress. It was an anxious habit of hers, fixing her clothing and checking her hair. Her mother never seemed to be disheveled, no matter the time of day, no matter the disaster. Yet as much Eryndes continually straightened and fixed, she could never achieve Fuieryn’s effortless elegance. “No, he just sort of . . . was not going to take no for an answer. He said it is for my own good.”

“He’s acting as your brother now? Or perhaps your husband?”

“Gueniel,” she hushed her friend, looking at the crowd around them. “Have we not done with this discussion?”

“Perhaps it begs reopening.”

None of the folk seemed to be listening, thankfully. The last thing Eryndes wanted was for word to spread around about her secretly harbouring an attachment to Sindar. Or more ruinous; Sindar himself learning of it.

Especially now given her momentous decision. A decision that, if there was indeed any good consciousness about her, was the right decision.  

After returning with Sindar from their journey to Huaen’s farm, that night Eryndes sat up with Gueniel and confessed. Downing a whole pitcher of wine between them, Eryndes confessed it all; the intensity of her attraction upon their first meeting, their following awkwardness, her gradual but strong affinity for him. And how after spending two days in his company riding in the mountains, it had painfully became obvious; her heart bore no reservation when it came to him, immortality and nobility be damned! Her love was long lost. 

Sighing heavily, Eryndes leant in closer to Gueniel to whisper, “Sindar is not acting anything. After the encounter with that- that beast, who would blame him desiring me to learn? Unlike Baineth, I'm not batting my eyelashes at him.”

“Weren’t you doing that an hour ago?”

“Nay. I was . . .” Unashamedly enjoying his company one last time?

Gueniel encircled her waist for a quick squeeze, “It’s my job to safeguard your heart. I’m the bucket of water to the flame you hold for him.”

“For which I am grateful,” Eryndes held the embrace for a moment more then pulled away to re-straighten her skirt. “Time is waning. What could be keeping them?”

Gueniel smacked at her hand, “Your dress is fine and I’m sure the eminent Gell will turn out to be just another oafish ranger.”

“Oafish ranger all the folk believe I am destined to marry.”

“They thought the same of Joust.”

“Aragorn has been hinting at it too,” Eryndes rose on her tiptoes to see over the crowd, look passed the main gate to down the road, “for years now. Not lately though. Regardless, if Gell does prove aimable, I have decided to consider our union -”

“Are you drunk?”

Eryndes stood back down to face her friend. “Nay. Why do you-?”

Gueniel’s angular features hardened. “Because that’s the only way you’d ‘ever’ consider an arranged marriage to be anything but cowardice.”

Eryndes noisily let go of her pent up breath. “My years are passing-”

“You can’t be that desperate!”

“Please lower your voice.”

“Why? Answer me that! Because of Sindar?” 

Tensing her stomach against the great emptiness threatening to engulf her, she whispered, “Because I want to marry. I want marriage, a husband, children of my own. What is gained by pining after a elf-?”

“You also speak of wanting to climb the Blue Mountains! To see the wonders of the world! Did you not swear to your father you’d marry for love?”

Sucking in a deep breath, Eryndes lifted her head resolutely, “The time has come to put away foolish dreams.”

Gueniel started to argue-

Eryndes held up her hand, “I have accepted it. Gell comes and so does the future.”

Gueniel stood there, mouth wide, shaking her head-

Whatever she might have said remained unknown for a long low bellow filled the afternoon.

The crowd held their collective breath for the answer-

A smaller horn sounded in the distance; distinctive as a voice.

“It’s them,” Gueniel confirmed, then took her hand, “Don’t think we’re done talking about this. But now you have an oafish ranger to greet.”

“Stay,” Eryndes pressed, holding fast to her hand, “You are as good as family-”

“It’s not my place,  _ mistress _ ,” she shook her head and left, threading her way through the crowd to where her family would be waiting.

Brushing at her hair one last time, she turned about, her eyes scanning for the one who should stand taller than anyone else. But she couldn’t see him. Should he not also be at the front? He was just as much in charge of Carthal’s rangers as Úrion. But two times scanning for both heights and faces, she couldn’t see him.

Perhaps it was for the best he was not there.

“We’re all here,” Faron’s grading voice came from behind her.

“I see we are,” she answered briskly, swallowing down the ache in her chest. Faron and the other masters and mistress moved through to the front of the crowd. Úrion came to stand by her side and Joust winked at her then took his place at Úrion’s side. 

“Sindar?” Eryndes asked Úrion, keeping her voice hopefully low enough so Joust wouldn’t hear.

Úrion kept his eyes to the approaching army, “Said he had something more important to attend.”

The horses came streaking through the main gate in showy perfection; of soldiers and their horses, full of pride. Aragorn was at the head with another who she guessed was Gell.

When they pulled up in the embarkation loop, Eryndes waited. Aragorn dismounted first, then Gell and all his rangers followed at once. 

In his usual disarray, yet still handsome with messy hair and poorly kept cloth, Aragorn swept forward. His arms pulled her into a tight embrace and she returned it just as keenly. “You are late,” Eryndes pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Aragorn moved back and tapped her cheek in affection, “Am I not always?”

“Was there trouble?”

“Nothing to be concerned.” He nodded to Úrion, Joust, Faron and all the other heads of Carthal, who all bowed in formal greeting.  Stepping back, Aragorn allowed the stranger to approach. “Sister. My friends. Allow me to introduce Gell, son of Gallon, commander of rangers.”

Gell was indeed handsome as was reputed with bold features tamed by gentle lines. There, too, was a meticulous quality about him, much in the same way as Sindar. He wore young leather and clean cloth absent of fraying or weathering. Even his horses’ leather and fastenings were free of the obvious signs of a fifteen day journey.

First Aragorn introduced him to Carthal’s own ranger leaders, Úrion and Joust, while Eryndes waited for her turn. Gell was a tall man, perhaps only lacking to both Sindar and Faron. He was strongly set, more akin to the bulk of Úrion and Lobordir than the leaner builds of Sindar and Aragorn. His beard, like his hair was dark as with all Dúnedain, but maintained quite short. The warm tone to his skin told of countless years spent in the harsh elements, but the quirk to his brow promised his temperament had not suffered for it.

He was as handsome as folk praised. For Eryndes though, her grieving heart acknowledged the man’s beauty but remained unaffected by it. 

In bitterness, she could almost wish the man ugly.

“My sister,” Aragorn introduced, “Eryndes of the Dúnedain, Mistress of Carthal.”

Bowing her head, Eryndes extended her hand with a due smile, “You are welcome here at Carthal, commander ranger.”

The quirk to Gell’s brow increased and he took her hand, “As are my rangers, I hope?”

She blinked. “Of course.”

The pleasing line to his lips lifted to a most handsome smile, “We are humbled to be welcomed to a place with so much beauty. I am pleased to find the lady of the house is just as her reputation suggested.” He lifted her hand, bringing her knuckles up to meet his bent head.

Urged by loyalty to a sweet memory, Eryndes tugged her hand away before he could take the liberty. Gell’s answering chuckle was enough to make her respond in kind, “And you, ranger commander, are just as your reputation paints you.”

“Which is?” he gazed down upon her smugly.

“A charmer for all women to beware.”

His deep throaty laugh was not unpleasant. “An unfair reprobation.” 

“Oh?”

He leaned down a touch, “A charmer knows his powers only work on the willing.”

“Eryndes?” Aragorn nudged his way between them. “Where is Sindar?”

“(I am here).”

Eryndes stepped back from Gell to find Sindar beside her. It was unreasonable to feel guilt. Yet, guilt was what filled her stomach. She wanted to ask where he’d been but held her tongue seeing the stern set to his jawline, his unblinking eyes set to the newcomer commander.

Aragorn chuckled, “Aye, there you are,” and embraced his great friend. Sindar stood rigid, barely returning Aragorn’s affection with a light tap on his shoulder.

Taking a long breath, Eryndes held to her post, quiet, waiting, the freezing afternoon air growing steadily warmer with Sindar’s heady scent. Sublime and earthy, teasing her nose to breath in again, deeply. Savouring. 

Gell, nor any man could ever smell so wonderful.

“Gell,” Aragorn pulled back from the elf, “I would like you to meet Sindar, lord from  _ Lasgalen _ and commander of the elven elite.” 

“(I am honoured to meet you, lord),” Gell raised his hand to touch his shoulder.

Sindar returned the gesture, “(I greet you).”

The stiffness in Sindar’s words and manner broke through her daze. Though moody and haughty at times, Sindar was still polite and genteel to his bones. But this was a hair’s breadth away from being rude.

An awkward moment hung in the air-

Aragorn discreetly nudged her in signal and she jumped to her duty.

“Shall we retire inside now?” Eryndes put on her friendliest smile, looking to each face in turn and gestured to the manor stairs, “Surely the rangers would appreciate a warm fire and an ale before dinner?”

“They would indeed,” Gell answered her, his features returning affable, “My rangers have had a long ride and be glad to partake your hospitality. We’ve heard much of the brewing of Carthal ale. I should very much like to try-”

“Then we shall retire inside,” Sindar said sharply and held out his arm.

Eryndes took his arm without hesitation, her fingers sliding over the silken fabric to discreetly explore the contours of his bicep. 

Keeping her hostesses smile, she waved the group onwards while Sindar moved them past. She spied surprise in Aragorn but he didn’t object. “Is something wrong?” she whispered leaning in closer to him as he lead her up the stairs to the inside.

“Of course not.”

Eryndes gazed up at him as he lead her through the long hallway, “I thought elves didn’t lie?”

His eyes shot to hers but she held her ground. Well accustomed to his ways, Sindar’s moods no longer intimidated her as they once did.

“It was not a lie,” the faintest smile touched his eyes, “There is nothing wrong. Now.”

“Something was wrong though,” she ventured quietly, “You did not find Gell amiable?”

“It is wise never to base an opinion upon first impressions.”

Eryndes stared up at him. 

“Bite your tongue, Eryndes.”

She grinned, “Where's your wisdom now?”

“Abandoned me long ago.”

“Gell and his rangers are here to help us.” 

“I am aware.”

Carefully she glanced back at Aragorn, Gell and the heads of Carthal formally following them into the great hall but still kept her voice low, “Perhaps on closer acquaintance you will come to friendship with Gell. He is said to be a good man. Even Aragorn favours him.”

For a heartbeat she believed Sindar stiffened. “In time we shall see for ourselves why.”

 

* * *

 

While the newcomer rangers were welcomed with full mugs of ale and the cheery hospitality of the fire warmed great hall and appreciative folk of Carthal, Aragorn lead Úrion up the three flights of stairs. Legolas’ cold welcome was out of character, even for the haughty prince.

“Should we not wait for Sindar?”

“I wanted a quiet word first.”

Úrion nodded easily, “You are wondering at the battle preparation we’ve been making. The forests in the east grow quieter each day and there have been sightings of creatures previously unseen in the north, possibly driven this way. Our scouting parties search exhaustively but the enemy remains at large. Sindar and I agreed to concentrate of preparedness in light-”

“Tell me of Eryndes.”

Úrion took a moment. “In what manner?”

“I am not blind, my friend. I saw just as you did. Tell me of Sindar and Eryndes.”

Úrion put his large hands on his waist, “If you suspect dishonour then you should confront him, not come seeking me to betray-"

“I don't suspect dishonour,” Aragorn cut him off, then eased the words with care, “At least, I would refuse to believe he would lie with her without due oaths of marriage.”

Úrion maintained his rigidity. “Aragorn. This is a matter to be taken up with Sindar. I will not answer for him.”

Aragorn held his palm up, “He is the very next person I intend to speak. What I demand of you is an account of their . . . dealings.”

Úrion eyed him and answered slowly, “They spend much of their liberty together.”

Stewing on that a moment, he decided asking ‘doing what’ was likely to bring Úrion even more to the defensive. “Do the people suspect any . . . attachment between them?” 

“Some folk think it fortunate he’s an elf; a perfect friend and chaperon. Other folk say it’s a pity; they’d make a fine match.” 

Either would bode well for Legolas if his sister ever shared in his affection.

The big man shrugged, “Then there are those who’d think the suggestion an outrage, for Carthal to be mastered by an elf?”

“I care to know your thoughts, my friend.”

Úrion ran a hand over his face, struggling. “They are close. Were he a man . . . ? Whether I think it's love or simply strong friendship on her part, or his, I wouldn’t discredit either of them by venturing an uninformed opinion.”

Aragorn hesitated, “Do you think it wise? An elf and a mortal?”

“If it were love then what does it matter what I think?”

“You're as unflappable as ever,” he smiled briefly, before letting it drop and getting to the core of the issue. “Word has reached my ear of a confrontation. A creature from the east. That through Sindar’s negligence, my sister was moments away from terrible harm.”

If the man was surprised, he didn’t show it, “I don’t believe that’s quite accurate. They went to Huaen’s farm. The northern woods were thought safe-”

“Obviously such thought was wrong-”

“He killed the creature,” Úrion counted.

“And if there happened to be two creatures?” he shook his head, “I am concerned Sindar’s judgement may no longer be relied upon where Eryndes is concerned.”

Silence held the air and fortunate as the elf in question came striding through the doorway across the way into the long empty war-room.

Úrion closed his eyes, then said very quietly, “He is our ally, our friend. Do not be too hard, for if it is love who can claim sound judgement?”

Aragorn didn’t answer and Úrion exited the small office, “I should go see Gell and his rangers are settling in.” He gave Sindar a nod as they passed.

Legolas gave no indication he’d heard any of their conversation. “We must speak.”

Aragorn waited for Legolas to take the seat before re-taking his. “Aye, we must.”

“I think the time has come for me to return to my father.”

Of all the things Legolas may have said . . . Aragorn stammered, “Y-you wish to leave us?”

“If you will not seek out my father’s aid, then I must,” Legolas said, a seldomly seem vulnerability creeping to his face, “I confess fear taunts me. One which will only build unless I take action.”

Aragorn put aside his grievances and asked, “What is this fear?” Truly, Legolas had always spoken of fears, of darkness. One with sights and instincts as sensitive and magical as his probably saw each and every evil on Earth.

Legolas’ gaze slipped down from his, “That if left too long, there will not be any Dúnedain to aid on the return journey.”

Aragorn lounged back and measured his tone, “What has happened to create this fear?”

Legolas slowly frowned, “There is not one thing but many. Something breathes in the shadows, perhaps Angmar and the army I saw there may invade? I do not know. What I feel though; lurking at the corner of my mind, my sight, I can feel it,” Legolas’ gaze drifted further away. “At light’s edge. Dust upon the wind. Malice without shape. A whisper,” he lifted his head and affixed his stare, “of doom.”

He met his stare. “Here?” With Angmar, Mordor and all other evil staining the world, Legolas’ vague ‘feeling’ could not always be relied upon to be near.

Again the elf’s eyes glazed, “It has been for months, pressing down upon my mind. Approaching . . .”

Aragorn could wait no longer, “And yet you deemed this darkness worth so little concern you lead my kin into the wilderness!”

Legolas’ eyes snapped back to him but he didn’t speak.

“You don't deny it?”

“I do not.”

Aragorn gestured to him, “Were you planning to tell me?”

“Indeed. The northwestern mountains are no longer safe. Foul beasts and orcs have now infested-”

“You lead her to danger?” Legolas’ refusal to react only made Aragorn madder. 

“There was to be no danger-”

“You swore her life safe in your keeping, upon your death!”

“My life I would have given,” Legolas said factually, “had it been necessary.”

“How do claim to care for her and not see your own ill-judgement?”

“My judgement was in error. Do not make the assumption my vanity leaves me ignorant. If you wish to extract your revenge, I am prepared-” he started to stand.

“(Stop),” Aragorn held up his hand. “(Sit down, Legolas).” Aragorn watched him return his study, then gracefully retake his seat. “Have you her consent? Are you courting?”

“(Not yet).”

Aragorn let out a weary sigh, “Yet many of the Dúnedain have begun to wonder.”

“Your peoples’ gossip does not concern me.”

Closing his eyes, Aragorn rubbed his forehead and fought for patience. “You made a mistake.”

“Not even my father is infallible.”

He opened his eyes to stare at his unmoving brother. He was being distant, haughty;  but at the core Legolas was humbled. Perhaps it would not take more than one hand to count the number of times in Legolas’ three thousand years that had happened. A good thing? Aragorn didn’t pretend to know the answer. “Very well. I don’t seek vengeance and nor withdraw my blessing. However I beg you be more cautious. You and her are the only family I have.”

Legolas eyed him but then accepted his warning with a slight incline of his head.

“Good,” he worked to loosen his tense shoulders, “Then the matter is settled. Let us move forward. Please speak of our situation. I see Carthal is beginning to look like the fortress of old.”

 

* * *

 

After supper that night, Legolas stole away upstairs to be away from all the excited talk. With the addition of Gell’s rangers mixing with talk of war and the excitement surrounding Baradon’s wedding, he could help but long for a moment’s peace.

He’d even gone so far as to make his excuses to Baineth, who increasingly sought his company of late. Her guise ‘to practice Sindarin’ was not at all believable. He’d been the recipient of many unwelcome overtures in his years not to recognise what was at the heart of her interest. While Legolas did find her polite and amusing, experience taught him to give no further encouragement.

That night though, Legolas was not in the mood for Baineth. Nor his other friends. Quietly he departed the great hall, stealthy enough for none to notice and stop him.

With the stars veiled by an early winter’s storm, and not in the least feeling the need to sleep, Legolas made his silent way to the library snuggly hidden away in the halls of the third floor. It was not often Legolas was ever found seeking to read books, however given his need of solace, there remained few places of choice with the grounds now overflowing with folk.

Smugly heralded as the largest in the north, by the Carthal Dúnedain of course, it paled greatly to the vastness of Thranduil’s library. Regardless, it was quiet save for the soft cracking of the fire.

Taking a leather bound book on the advantages of symbiotic plantings and soil cultivation, he eased his long frame into a comfortable wing chair near the fire. Although his kind needed neither the light or warmth, it was cozy and elves did enjoy their comforts. 

Legolas threatened many times through the passing of the hours to get up and exchange the book. The book was thorough and the illustrations detailed, but farming just wasn’t in his blood. Yet, just as he’d done as an elfling, he kept on reading. Such was the expected discipline of the son of Thranduil.

The night edged closer to morning and he came close to finishing. He would be glad to finally be free to choose another book-

A quiet disturbance outside the door caught his ear.

It sounded like hushed whispers. Giggles.

Eyes narrowing sharply, Legolas shot to his feet and opened the door on the couple. 

As expected he found them, Gell and Eryndes, but just not as his snap of furious jealousy imagined. Eryndes stood surprised at the door to the library, and Gell departing, almost to the door of his assigned quarters.

“Oh, Master Elf,” Eryndes breathed, “You frightened me.”

“Is there a problem, lord?”

Legolas ignored the man. “You are up late.”

She laughed abashed, “Too much ale an’  cannot sleep. I was coming for a book.” As the anger receded from his eyes, he could indeed see the pink glow on her cheeks and slow focus of her eyes which may have come from drinking ale.

“You needn’t look so suspicious,” Gell announced indignantly, now standing before his door, “the lady’s quite safe with me.”

Legolas stepped into the corridor to allow Eryndes to pass while keeping Gell in his sights.

“You were reading?” Eryndes took his arm and urged him to follow, “I did not believe you even knew we had a library.”

Releasing his fists, Legolas relented and followed her back into the library. He made sure the door was well closed.

“You really should not be so rude to Gell.”

Spoken with clarity unexpected of someone in her . . . state was surprising and he keenly studied her again. Had she been pretending? But no, her eyes were still slower than normal.

“If you truly have not met him before today then I must suppose you have little reason.”

He took her reproach without too much resentment. He had a reason. “I apologise.”

She snorted and moved further into the room, “It is not to me you should apologise.”

Keeping within a step of her, he didn’t answer. She peroused the titles in the shelf and gave him no more attention.

Finally, he’d had enough. “Will you cease ignoring me if I apologise to Gell now?”

She looked over her shoulder at him, “Ignoring you? I am looking for a book.”

“There are many.”

“A ‘ _ particular’ _ book. Your mood is ill this evening.”

Turning away, he returned to the wing chair and took up the book. He would like to leave it unfinished, but- “Perhaps that is so.”

“What are you reading?”

He showed her the title page and wasn’t surprised by her attempt not to laugh. 

“Are you considering broadening your occupation into farming?”

“Nay,” he growled, “I simply pulled this one at random.”

Eryndes went back to the shelves. “I can choose one a little more entertaining if you like?”

“More than soil aeration and worms? Aye, please.” Even so, he kept the book and his place with a finger.  “You have quite a number of books,” he commented, trying to ease into conversation and forsake his foul mood. “I had no idea you were fond of reading.”

“Hardly fond if the attempt is to fall asleep,”  Her fingers ran over the spines, “These were my father's and his father’s and so forth. Though I must confess to reading each no less than two dozen times.”

“I would suggest acquiring more before they fall to pieces.” Many were indeed becoming tatty.

“Trade for literature is rare in the north, and expensive,” her skimming her hand stopped, finding the book. Pulling it out from the shelf, she handed it to him. “Our funds are limited to keeping us alive, not well read. Does King Thranduil have a grand library?”

He chuckled taking the book, “Would you like to relieve him of some of his collection?”

Her eyes lit up as she returned his mirth, “Well, my father’s collection is a little limited even if only for falling asleep.”

“My lord’s library is indeed grand, encompassing the size of one of Carthal’s wings.”

“I cannot imagine. Does he read them all?”

Legolas gazed happily into the pools of her eyes, “Once at the very least.”

“Have you?”

He snorted, “As I have said before I was required to undergo strict, extensive study during my formative years. I loathed every moment, in silence mind, not wishing to disappoint my father. When he did discover my hatred of study it became his punishment of choice.”

“He made you study as penitence?”

“You might say that. I was often required to read the entirety of the library, several times through.”

The awe fell from her face, “How long did it take to read the entire library?”

“A few years. Towards the latter stages of my youth, I was simply ordered to report to the library whenever I had done something to his displeasure. It proved a greater discouragement than any other form of punishment. Yes?” he inquired when she hesitated.

“Will you tell me of your father? What was he like? He sounds to be quite the tyrant.”

Legolas smiled, “My father lives.”

Eryndes frowned, “I am sorry. I do not know why I thought otherwise.”

“My father and I have a . .  challenging relationship at times; we do not often agree.”

“I am sorry to pry.”

He waved away her apology, “There is no need. I do not speak of him often but he is well kept in my thoughts and in my heart. You should not think him a tyrant; I was not an obedient elfling.” 

“I find it difficult to believe,” she fiddled absentmindedly with a lock of her hair, “You keep saying you were a terror-”

“In this you may trust; I was.”

She grinned broadly, “I think you would have been an adorable child- I mean, elfling.”

His eyes drifted down to the book in his hand, a book of poetry, quite suddenly forgetting how to breathe. “This is your choice for me?” he prayed his voice didn’t sound as croaky to her as it did to him.

“You have read it?”

Legolas shrugged, keeping his eyes on the pages as he flicked through, “When first I came to Carthal but there is no harm rereading. My impression may have changed since.” He paused, “What book were you seeking?”

“Oh,” she said lamely, “Nothing of great interest. It is a book about medicinal kneading.”

“‘ _ Kneading _ ’?” he choked, “What possible good would that do?”

“I will show you,” she continued looking and once found, pulled the book from the shelf. “I see,” he said, staring intently at the book to hide his embarrassment, “My mind conjured benches of wounded warriors, kneading bread for their health.”

Eryndes laughed good naturedly, “No, no, kneading into muscle.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, “How is that to help?”

“Sometimes the body needs aid. Here,” she pointed to an illustration in the book. “Understanding the different muscles and how to loosen them can aid in recovery.”

The illustration was of an arm, but with no skin and what looked like cloth wrapped around the bone. He looked at her skeptically.

“Have you never had a sore muscle and dug your fingers in to ease the pain?”

“No.”

“Never suffered from a badly damaged muscle?”

“No.” She looked almost annoyed now so he admitted, “Once. I fell from a large tree and grabbed a passing branch to stop my fall.”

“It is all elves or just you who are not fond of admitting injuries or illness?” 

His brow rose, “What woodland elf wishes to admit he fell from a tree?” 

“Depends on  _ why _ he fell.”

He did not answer nor did he wish to, for that was a long story; a long, embarrassing story.

“Did not the healers tend to your arm?”

“Not for days,” he said simply. “I was far from help.” He sighed at her expectant face, “I splinted the break and trudged towards home. One of the search parties eventually found me and I spent a week in the healing wing. My father was merciful enough to wait my recovery before unleashing his wrath. He hated punishing me. To his way of thinking I should never have needed punishing, that I should have known better. Wisdom is in my heritage, my blood.”

Eryndes sniggered softly, “What youngster possesses an abundance of wisdom? Is it not the point of childhood? To err and learn?”

He took the book from her, “Show me.”

“Show you what?”

“Medical kneading.”

Her lips separated, “You are not injured.”

“I must be injured for you to demonstrate?” Her hesitation irritated his already tender mood, “Nevermind.” He held out the book to her.

Instead of taking the book, she reached out and placed her hand on his upper arm. “This particular muscle?” she ran her fingers down his arm, “that is this one in the diagram, here,” she pointed to the arm illustration. “When it contracts, the arm is lifted,” she lifted his elbow with her other hand. She ran her fingers down the inside of his upper arm, “this one bring up your forearm. Like this,” she took his wrist and raised it to his shoulder. “When the muscle is injured, it needs to be worked, loosen the restriction and allow blood to flow once more aiding repair,” she took a hold of his upper with both hands and ran her thumbs up from his elbow to his shoulder.

“Am I supposed to feel healing?” he asked dubiously.

She breathed out noisily, “Well it is difficult to work through cloth, especially one made of slippery spun oil.”

“Silk,” he corrected, pulling at the lacings around the right cuff and rolled the sleeve up his arm.

Again she hesitated but only for a moment. She took his arm then smiled.

“Yes?” he asked.

The colour of her cheeks shifted, her fingers grazing gently over his forearm, lifting up some of the fine blonde hairs, “I have never seen blonde arm hair.”

That made him scoff, “Suddenly I question your healing credibility.”

Her answering glare turned his scoff into a laugh.

“I have seen folk with fair hair but you are the only one I have ever treated.”

“Pouring tea is not what I consider treatment.”

In answer she took a firm grasp his shoulder and run her fingers against the ridges of his muscles, “This one lifts the arm, this lifts the forearm.”

“Yes, I understood the first time.” He grinned at her grumble.

Using the heel of one hand she began kneading, gentle at first, gradually working in deeper, hard into the inside muscle, then dug in with her fingers harder, moving up his arm, again and again, every time her fingers getting in deeper.

The concentration on her face was fetching and the small bite on her lip held his attention to her lips. Were they even softer than he imagined her skin to be? “And this would help heal injury?”

She didn't look up from her work, “Were your arm sore this would feel wonderful.”

Mesmerized beyond hope by his siren, he traced the line of her lips with his eyes, “I did not say it was not wonderful.”

Her eyes shot to his, her face completely flushed red. Pulling down his sleeve, she gathered her book and stepped away, “I believe you have a better understanding now.”

He had not expected her to jump away from him as she had. “Indeed.” he pulled at his cuff lacings with growing frustration. For weeks now he’d lightly prodded, hoping for a glimpse of her regard for him. Just when he thought the moment was right . . . He finished tying the lacing on his sleeve, “It is very late.” Not waiting, he walked towards the door. “Good evening.”

“Wait,” she called after him, “What about the book?”

The bitter resentment festered on his tongue, “Never mind, I doubt I can afford the time.”

“Wait, Sindar.”

Paused with his hand on the door knob, his fingers tightening vice-like, “Did I not ask you never to call me that.”

“Master Elf,” she said from beside him holding out the book with uncertainty on her face. She was confused. “If you do find the time.”

Giving in he took the book, “Thank you.”

“I am sorry if I . . .”

“Yes?” he prompted with very little civility.

“For keeping you up so late,” she said at last. “Good night.”

* * *

 

 

‘ _ Legolas!’ _

Legolas dropped his book on the bed, his eyes instantly searching. Yet . . . there was nothing. The air was warm and bickered with sounds from the fire, outside the wind howled against his shutters. 

But nothing more. His senses had not failed him. There was no one in his chamber.

_ ‘Legolas!’ _

The voice, feminine, called again, soft but insistent. He might’ve asked who was there, but his unparalleled sight and hearing told him he was alone. Sliding down from the large plush bed, he didn’t bother to pull on his boots.  Silently he padded barefoot on the threadbare rugs covering the smooth wood floor towards the direction of the voice. 

_ ‘Legolas.’ _

Senses on high alert, Legolas scanned the corners, along the walls and behind blanket chest. This time the call was louder and not so urgent. And if he were not mistaken he knew the voice.

He shifted carefully to glance around the privy-screen to search the bathing alcove.

That is where he found her.

His breath froze in his chest. Onyx hair shimmered in the flickering firelight, loose and unkempt, sweeping down the length of her back, playing against the tantalizing curve of her waist. Her night-shift, pale and weathered, hung draped from her shoulders, ribbon loose, the slinky material toying around the ample shape of her breasts and taught over the distinct flare of her hips. 

Her lips slowly spread into a salacious smile, “Legolas.”

“Eryndes?” he croaked, working moisture back into his mouth.

She put a finger to her lips, “Shh.” Her smile grew, her vivid blue eyes slanting down over him. Her fingers trailed down, moving ever so slowly, trailing down the length of her neck, grazing lazily down passed her collarbone to stop between her breasts. Her fingers tangled teasingly at the loose ribbon, easing apart the fabric holding back her bountiful flesh. “Come, Legolas. I have a secret to share.”

Breath froze in his lungs. Warmth- no, fever, smothered him. He begged his body to remain still, begging to the valar his . . . reaction wasn't as visible as it felt. “Eryndes, w-what are you doing here?” He winced at the weakness in his voice. 

Surely he should yell at her, force her to leave. Surely she wasn't suggesting, inviting him? Not this way. 

Her smile didn’t waver, neither did her teasing of the ribbon. He swallowed hard making out the small circles shadowing through the revealing cloth.

If she were to ask him to approach her again-

“You must leave.” He raised his chin, holding desperately to his honour. He loved her, Eru have mercy desired her but this-this was . . . wrong. He fisted his hands tightly to stop the tingling, the ache to know the touch of her skin. “You think I would dishonour you this way?”

Eryndes continued to smile. The eeriness of it jolted him from his stupor. Not only was this wrong but improbable. Eryndes would not do this. Even if she harboured any of the same desires for him, she would never sneak into his chambers for a clandestine tryst.

Breathing in deeply, Legolas squared his shoulders. “This is not you. You are not truly here.” Taking a better look at her, he could now acknowledge the wooden bathtub could clearly been seen ‘through’ her.

“Who are you?” he demanded. Focusing, he concentrated on her, on the shift of air, the vibrations of all the objects in the room. The image of Eryndes flickered.

Legolas smirked. “I see through your illusion, spellcaster. Who are you? What is your purpose? Why have you come before me?”

“Legolas,” she giggled, unnervingly, and a shiver ghosted up his spine. “They are coming. We will all die.” 

The vision of Eryndes vanished.


End file.
